


Agent 729

by h4t08



Category: Call the Midwife
Genre: Alternate Universe, Multi, Season 5 Divergence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-26
Updated: 2019-08-24
Packaged: 2020-07-20 12:54:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 10
Words: 27,100
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19992544
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/h4t08/pseuds/h4t08
Summary: Sixteen years after the end of the war (and her service to her country), Agent 729 finds herself back in the same battle she thought she had left behind. Yet, now with a family and community to protect, she has no choice but to pick up the same gun she swore she would never touch again.





	1. Prologue

**Inspiration of this story:**

**(Credit:[Miss-Ute](https://miss-ute.tumblr.com/post/182789173860/for-thatginchygal))**

* * *

**Paris - 1945, 8th of May**

“I’m done.” She tightens the blanket around her shoulders. “I want nothing more to do with this.”

The older woman rolls her eyes. “You always say—”

“I want nothing to do with you.” Silence creeps along the small hotel room, the festivities outside raging while the somber mood plucks against her skin like small needles. “Dispose me.”

The older woman dips the cloth square into the analgesic, smoothing it along the deep cut of the younger woman’s brow. “The moment we dispose of you, we will never be able to protect you.”

“I know.”

“You will not be able to tell anyone.”

“I know.”

“If you do, both you and the person you talked to will be dead within the day.”

“I know.”

The older woman closes the jar, placing it in her bag next to her weapons of choice. “I will miss you, sweetpea.”

That one small word of endearment punches her in her heart. _She hadn’t called me that since before the war._ “I will miss you more than you will ever know.”

The older woman stands. “Consider yourself disposed, Agent 729.” Before she reaches for the doorknob, she turns back towards her. “Stay in the shadows. Keep guard at all times. Above all else, tell no one.” With one last nod, the older woman walks out.

_Out of my life forever._ _Again_. She stands up and walks up to the window, the celebration reminding her of all it took for her to get to this point. _The months of training, the numerous shadows she had to work from, the men and women that she has had to kill._

Fireworks blast into the dark sky, lighting it up as if the sun itself was rising early to celebrate. “You would have loved this, Angelique.”

Turning away from the window, she pulls both of her smaller caliber weapons from her pack, placing them under her pillow just before climbing into bed. _Tomorrow will be a new day._ And with that, she lays on top of the sheet, the continuing flashes of light lulling her to a shallow sleep riddled with bodies falling deep into the abyss of the Seine River.


	2. The Show Must Go On

**Poplar - 1960, December 20th**

“The show must go on, Mrs. Turner!” With the flare of his arms, Mr. Swann rushes off towards the entrance of the church.

“I wonder how many times he will say that?” Barbara pulls her mac back on.

“I’ve already counted up to twelve. Once he reaches fifteen, then I think I will treat myself to a shot of whiskey.”

“Tom! Stop!” Barbara takes a swipe at his shoulder.

“Add the flare of his jazz hands and I think I’ll join you.” Shelagh rolls her eyes as both Tom and Barbara giggle under their breaths.

“I don’t know how you have been able to pull this off, Mrs. Turner,” Tom genuinely says, “but I am forever in your gratitude, you and Mrs. Mullens.”

“The Sisters and nurses won’t be as adorable as the children, but the sentiment will be all the same,” Shelagh sighs.

“The nurses?” Tom steps in front of her. “I apologize, Mrs. Turner, but I was under the impression that you would be leading the choir.”

Shelagh blanches at the thought. “No, I’m not used to singing in front of a large group of people.”

“But you have to!” Barbara interjects passionately. “You have such a lovely voice.”

 _Stay in the shadows_. That one sentence repeats in her mind over and over again, like a broken record, the fireworks over Paris blasting in time with her cantering heartbeat. _Stay in the shadows_. The searing pain in her skull, the flip of her blade as it raced through the air, her memories always end with the a body falling off of the bridge, plunging to her death as if it were her only safe haven. _Stay in the shadows._ The slam of a door brings her back to the present time, her cheeks flushing dark red. “I… I can’t.”

“Excuse me?!” The bellowing voice reverberates off of the rafters of the old church. “Did I hear correctly that you are not going to be singing in the choir?”

Shelagh turns to the boisterous man stalking up to the small group. “Mr. Swann, I don’t like singing in front of large crowds.”

His face pinches as he crosses his arms tightly along his chest. “Fine. We will be packed up by the end the day. I will tell the station programmers to replay the Her Majesty’s speech during your time slot.”

“Mr. Swann,” Tom sighs, “there is no reason to be dramatic. There are plenty of nurses and nuns that are singing in the choir.”

“But I want her. She convinced me of this little scheme and she will be a part of it.” He stares at her, Shelagh biting down on her tongue. “Fine.” He turns to the crew setting up the cameras and lighting. “Pack it, boys!”

“I’ll do it,” Shelagh gives in. _I’ll just cancel at the last minute._

“Good,” he gives their group a small, sniveling smile. “It might be helpful for you to know that I am able to cancel one minute before showtime.”

“Sir,” Tom speaks up, his voice reverberating off of the stone, “there is no need to extort Mrs. Turner. She has just agreed to sing with the choir, in your response to your childish theatrics. I will not have you stoop so low as to resort to underhand and sneaky tricks, not in this house and certainly not with this woman, whom is a pillar in this community.”

Mr. Swann sticks his nose in the air and meekly replies, “I will be back in thirty minutes to review over your ensemble, Mr. Hereward.” And with as much flare, he makes his way towards the exit.

When the door to the church slams shut, Barbara exhales, “That was brilliant.”

“Mrs. Turner,” Tom lays his hand on her shoulder, “you don’t have to sing if you don’t want to.”

“Mr. Swann is right,” she looks towards the sky, praying that the number to the operator still works, and smirks, “the show must go on.”

“I would invite both you and Doctor Turner to the Black Sail for a drink, however, I have to iron out my ensemble.” His palm slips off of her shoulder and captures Barbara’s elbow. “Please let me know if you change your mind.”

She looks to the cross in front of her, wishing with all of her might that there was an easier way out. “I will not change my mind; however, I do appreciate your support.” She gives him a convincing smile, one that was perfected many years ago. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I need to get the cradle ready.”

“Of course.”

* * *

Finding the telephone box with ease, Shelagh lays her bicycle against the wall before slipping through the broken door. She had wanted to make the phone call earlier, however, with the arrival of baby Mullens, she had put this necessary call on the back burner. _I’m not even sure if they will even take my call._

Putting in her money, she dials the number she has known by heart since she was fifteen. _I have to try, if not for me, then for Timothy and Angela._

It rings twice, before a strict voice comes on the line, “Greater London Flowers and Arrangements, how may I direct your call?”

“Inquiry.”

“Number?”

“729.”

After ten seconds, she replies, “Number has been disposed of. Have a good—”

“Sweetpea.” Shelagh grips the edge of the receiver, hoping beyond all hope that that one word will get her through.

“One moment, please.”

She exhales as the line clicks.

“729?” Shelagh thanks the good Lord that he is the one taking her call. “Is that really you?”

She doesn’t answer him, instead making sure that he is who she knows him to be. “What is my preferred weapon of choice?”

He answers quickly, “A double-edged knife and a small prayer.” She waits for his question. “The number of kills on August 22, 1944 in Berlin?”

“Zero. Ten in Hamburg.”

“Bloody hell!” Shelagh cracks a smile at his boyish squeal. “It’s been ages since I have heard from you.”

“It has.” She knows that she only has two minutes left before the call is severed. “I will be on the BBC on Christmas evening to help benefit our perish. Will there be any traffic?”

“As far as we know the Pied Piper is no where near England. Our intelligence places him in Argentina.”

“He had many contacts.”

“Most of which are either dead or captured, thanks to the intel Angelique gave you.”

“Is it safe?”

“Limit your time and watch your back. I will contact if I see otherwise.”

“Thank you. It is… It is good to hear from you.” Memories of their car rides through the countryside replays in her mind.

“Au revoir, ma petite araignée.” And before she has the chance to respond in kind, the line goes dead.

With all that behind her, she replaces the phone back onto the cradle and slips out of the phone box. Picking up her bicycle, she makes the trek back to Nonnatus House, secure that she will not be putting her family in danger.


	3. Manet

Timothy unlocks the door, Patrick strolling in with a sleeping Angela in his arms and Shelagh bringing up the end. Just as Patrick climbs the first stair, the telephone rings loudly into the still air.

With Patrick hurrying up, Shelagh sends a quick prayer after him hoping that she did not wake. “Turner residence.” _We were just at Nonnatus House._

“Danger.” It’s Charlie. “Number of kills in Paris combined. Favorite paired with the last known painting of Victorine by artist whom we both enjoyed when we visited France.” Then the line goes dead.

Hanging up the phone, her mind begins to churn with all of the details stored in her memory banks. _Number of kills in Paris combined, fourteen. We liked many works of art, but no other artist we saw used Victorine as a model other than Manet. His last known painting with her was in 'The Railway'._

“Mum? Are you okay?”

Shelagh blinks to see Timothy staring at her, concern furrowing along his brow. “Yes,” she is able to exhale, her mind still reeling of possible sight for their meeting all the while trying to find a suitable excuse to put her Turner boys at ease as well as a reason for her late-night trek. “That was Mr. Pendergast. He fears his wife is in labor.” Delivering her other three children while she was Sister Bernadette, Mrs. Pendergast wanted only her as her midwife.

“Then they should have called Nonnatus House,” Timothy slowly mumbles as Patrick makes his way down the stairs.

“I’m happy to say that Angela is still fast asleep.” He kisses Shelagh on the cheek. “Who was on the telephone?”

“Mum’s finicky patient,” Timothy rolls his eyes as he makes his way to the stairs. “Happy Christmas and good night.”

“Mr. Pendergast. He fears that his wife is in labor.” _Our favorite Manet painting was Olympia._

“Will you go to see her?”

_They bought it._ “Yes.” _Fourteen. Olympia. Railway._

“Shelagh?” He captures her shoulder, bringing her out of her thoughts. “Are you okay?”

_Fourteen. Olympia. Railway. Fourteen. Olympia. Railway. Fourteen. Olympia. Railway._ “Yes, just a wee bit tired.” _There’s an Olympian Way._

“Would you like me to take you?”

_And it’s near the railway._ “No. I can ride my bicycle. I’m sure it is nothing but Braxton Hicks brought on by an overanxious father.” She kisses his cheek. “I will be back before you know it.” _I believe there is a residential building at the crossway between that railway and Olympian Way. This must be it -- at least I hope._

“Very well,” he kisses her temple, “I’ll put on a pot of tea and catch up with the latest Lancet.”

Before he can slip away, she wraps her arms around his waist. “I love you.” She is desperate, the unknown of what she will find pressing against her throat, choking her into a submission she had thought has long since been gone since the night of her disposal.

“I love you too, my darling.” He kisses her lips and, for this one scrap of a moment, she takes her time. “Hurry home, ehh? We still have our gifts to exchange.”

She nods, choosing instead to capture his lips rather than to waste her time with talking. Mentally counting down the second she is able to give him, she pulls away when she reaches zero. “I’ll be back soon.”

“I look forward to it,” he grins as she picks up her bag and walks towards the door.

Closing it with a mighty tug, she takes her key and securely locks it. While she knows that Patrick is capable of doing it on his own, he tends to forget when other things are on his mind.

Opening her case, she tears the lining to reveal both her double-edged knife as well as her old Walther pistol that she had put in the night she called headquarters. While she remembers feeling rather secure with the intel that Charlie was able to give her, a nagging voice in the back of her mind encouraged her to seek out her old weapons of choice. _That should have been my clue that something was subconsciously amiss._

A cold chill crawls up along her spine at the thought of using these weapons she has not touched in over fifteen years. _What if I’m sloppy? What if I cannot keep up?_ Closing her case, she sets it on the back of her bike. _Whatever happens, we are in danger now and I need to be on the top of my game._

Climbing over the seat, she brings the peddle forward with her right foot before beginning her trek on to Olympian Way, back to her old life as a spy.

* * *

Shelagh glances up the building, her foreboding nerves quieting somewhat by the Christmas festivities still lighting the night by the residence of this block. Hiding her bike within the thin shadows, she uses the loud music and clinking bottles to help cover her noise as she makes her way towards the back of the building.

Climbing the stairs two at a time, she swings her bag into her left arm, her right-hand twitching by her side, ready to make a move should she need to.

She steps up to resident number fourteen, knuckles raised.

—Knock, knock, tap, tap, tap. Tap, tap, knock, knock, knock. Knock, knock, knock, knock, tap.—

The door opens to a dark room.

Gripping her bag, she enters.

“Last thing you said to me?” The click of a revolver sounds off in the room.

“Don’t wait for me.” The door closes, the lock sliding into place. “The city where Ernst had finally caught me?”

“Zürich.” A lamp clicks on, revealing three people in the room surrounding her; a man in a nice suit with a rifle, a woman in a Christmas sweater with two pistols in her hands, and her friend Charlie behind her with his favorite revolver. _The same one I had given him for his birthday._ “I received your message.”

“Check her,” the woman commands.

Shelagh widens her stance, placing her bag on the ground next to her, she captures the back of her head with both palms.

Charlie comes up behind her and pats her down first then searches her bag. He pulls out the pistol and knife and holds it up to show his comrades. “The weapons she had taken when she was disposed of.”

The younger woman stares at Shelagh for three seconds before nodding. All three agents lower their weapons. “We weren’t sure you would understand his message. You have been out of the game for over fifteen years.”

Shelagh ignores her, instead turning to the one who she had been in contact with both times. “You called me.”

“You’re in danger, Shelagh.”

“You told me that I had low risk.”

“The Pied Piper has more contacts than we thought. He received a telegram from London with only two words, ‘found her’.” He steps closer to her. “Approximately two hours ago, he went missing, our current agent going silent.”

“Everything was so long ago. Why would he care about me now?”

The woman answers, “Angelique.”

“Eirene had sent us to warn you.”

Both names sets Shelagh’s teeth on edge, her nerves razor sharp, yet she swallows it. “And what am I supposed to do? I’m disposed of. You, nor her, nor the department can help me.” She looks to all of the agents in the room. “She had made that abundantly clear the night she disposed me.”

“You are different and you know it,” the woman murmurs. “We have put in new supplies in both your home and Doctor Turner’s surgery center.”

The man, who has been silent the whole time, hands her a thick, intricate key.

“Your bag has also been updated.”

He takes her old one and replaces it with an identical match.

Charlie gives her weapons back. “Watch your back, ma petite araignée.”

“And if I should be compromised?” Shelagh looks to Charlie. “My family needs protection.”

“Eirene is already taking care of it.” He captures her shoulder with his palm, warmth radiating through her body.

Shelagh nods, picking up her bag, she slips out of the door back into the festive night.

* * *

“How is Mrs. Pendergast?”

Patrick’s question nearly sends her into a tailspin. “She is all well. Anxiety pains more on Mr. Pendergast’s curtails rather than labor.” She places her heavier bag in the closet, taking a small amount of time to check where they had refreshed her supplies.

“We typically see this with first pregnancy, but never with the fourth.”

_There!_ A small, inconspicuous hole shows itself behind the boxes of gift wrapping. _One down, two more to go._ “He is more anxious for his wife to have a boy.” She clicks off the light and makes her way into the parlor. “All is calm, Mrs. Pendergast given strict instructions to rest.”

Patrick throws the Lancet off to the side as she settles down next to him. “You look completely worn.”

Her muscles ache, her mind is whirling around and around in circles; the last thing she expects is her body to succumb to sleep. However, with Patrick still in the dark with the danger that lurks within the shadows, she hides the truth with more truth, a strategy she had used many times during the war. “The show was far more taxing than I thought it was going to be.” 

“Then, shall we retire?”

Without an answer, she pulls him up from the couch and takes him up to their room. _There!_ She spots the same type hole just above a potted plant. If she were to guess, she would place the last stowaway in the kitchen.

“I hope you like it,” he takes out a small box from his bedside table.

_A small pistol in my bedside table, hopefully a rifle hidden away under the bed, and, if I’m really lucky, a pair of knives in our wardrobe._ She unties the ribbon and opens the box to see a black velvet jewelry box. Popping it open, her heart melts at the pearl necklace that stares back at her. “Oh, Patrick, this is too much.”

He picks it out of its case and wraps it around her neck, clasping it secure. “You are my wife, the mother of my children, my partner in both profession and in life.” He kisses the side of her neck. “You are worth every shilling I have spent.”

Guilt drips down into the pit of her belly. Despite all that the Pied Piper is bringing with him, she is still unable to disclose neither her work during the war or the danger that casts itself within the shadows. “I’m afraid…,” she swallows past her desire to tell the truth lodged against her throat. “I’m afraid that you will have to work for your gift.”

Determination curls against his brow. “Tell me what I need to do.”

Glancing towards the window, she knows that they are watching, that he is watching, yet without thicker curtains to block out their sight entirely, she moves their tryst towards the bed where she hopes the wall will block the team’s vision. “Take off my dress.”

* * *

“Doesn’t she know that she is standing in a weak spot?”

Charlie peaks through the scope, his stomach churning as her husband peels off her dress. “She moved.”

“What is her story?”

He tunes out her repeated questions, instead focusing in on the negligee she is showing off. Her husband, of course, rips it off of her, exposing her perfect breasts to him.

“Are you listening?” Iris smacks his shoulder. “She was disposed of. Why is she the one we break the rules for?”

The moment she climbs on top of her husband, he pushes away the scope. “You did your duty.”

“By saying the name ‘Angelique’, which so happens to be similar to the name of her daughter.”

Standing from his chair, Charlie makes his way towards the small kitchen.

Iris stares after him. “What has she done to make you this nervous? To have Eirene, of all bloody people, to send in a complete overhaul and squad?”

“Your questions are better left unanswered until—”

“Yeah, yeah,” she rolls her eyes, “until the time is right, I know.”

Charlie smiles at his apprentice, her impatience being both a blessing and a curse. “I’ll take first shift. You will relieve me at 0400.”

She opens her mouth, an argument on the tip of her tongue, however, she visibly bites down on her bottom lip. “Very well,” she disappears into the only bedroom.

With Iris tucked away, Charlie ignores the scope altogether, instead taking out his prized revolver and placing it on the table. Pulling the cleaning kit out from his bag, he sets himself up to keep busy to help ease the passage of time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Shelagh had used Morse Code when she knocked on the door.


	4. Lost Connections

“Goodbye, darling,” Patrick kisses Shelagh’s cheek, “I’ll see you this afternoon.”

“Goodbye, dearest.” Just as he is about to slip away, she wraps her hand around the back of his neck, keeping him pressed against her body.

“You have been rather amorous since last night,” he captures her waist with needy hands. 

“I’m sure you don’t mind,” she runs her fingers through his hair, their tryst late last night and early this morning setting fire to her body.

“Not in the least.” He lifts her up onto the edge of the table, his tall stature lording over her, demanding her lips in such a way that has her aching for more. “Ugh,” he growls as he takes a step back, “I’m already late for my first appointment.”

“I will see you this afternoon.” She reaches out and kisses his knuckles.

His finger draws a lazy line down her cheek. “If it’s the last thing I do, my darling.”

He had said it in jest, a romantic gesture, yet it sparks something inside her, an overwhelming desire to protect him, her family, at all cost. Straightening herself off of the table, she gives his finger a little peck. “It won’t be the last thing that you will do, it will be the highlight of our day.”

Unbeknownst to the danger surrounding them, he gives her a cheeky grin, “I was hoping to spend our lunch in the supply closet.”

“Mmm… if all is quiet and you’re a good boy.” His eyes glitter with excitement. “Now go,” she pushes him away with the flick of her wrist, “you are already late.”

“I’ll see you soon, darling.” His bright smile is the last thing she sees before he slips out of the door.

Tightening her robe the moment she locks up after him, she finishes the cleaning in the kitchen before starting her work.

 _First up, the coat closet._ Placing the box of wrapping paper and bows off to the side, she pulls the small key from her pocket, inserting it into the hole and twisting it until the lock clicks out of place. Using the tip of her nail, she digs the edge out until the door easily swings open, revealing her extensive choice of weapons; three semi-automatic pistols with silencers, several magazines, and three blades.

Within the span of a few seconds, her combat and hand-to-hand training all comes back to her in one gust to the gut.

 _Not bad._ She picks up the PPK pistol, it’s lightweight and compact design making it easier to grip, maneuverability quick. Placing it back on the hook, she lifts the knife, the flexibility of the blade making it effortless to pinpoint a target with great accuracy.

It had taken her numerous months to learn and catalogue all there was to learn on safe ground before dropping into enemy territory. Once she had passed that demarcated line between friends and foe, she was on her own, her knowledge and wits the only things helping her to stay alive. _Well, that and Charlie._ Closing the hideaway, she makes sure to lock it before putting the box of paper and bows back in front of it.

Checking the other two hiding spots in the kitchen and upstairs, she finds the same weapons. In the bedroom, she discovers a smaller pistol taped inside her bedside table drawer and an assault rifle strapped under the bed with several magazine chambers next to it.

As she searches the rest of the house, she finds the other rooms bare of any weapons. However, she takes note of the furniture she can breakdown into a weapon; the leg of a chair in Patrick’s office, a thick belt in Timothy’s room, even the metal jack-in-the-box that can be used in case of a quick getaway.

By the time she has cataloged everything, she is not surprised to see that it is almost noon. Hurrying upstairs, she pulls her nightdress over her head. Opening a drawer, she is pleasantly surprised to find two battle-worn pistols nestled in their holsters under her neat stack of stockings.

Just underneath it, lays a note with one word; _Satisfied?_

Running the tips of her fingers along the familiar lines, she finds herself once again immersed in countless memories of her time as a spy. She can feel the cold fingers of dread reaching out to her neck, yet, with the Pied Piper and his henchmen on their way here, she reasons that there is no time to waste. It is only when images of Patrick’s innocent eyes flutter through her mind does the guilt of her actions and of her past choke her.

 _He has a right to know_.

 _Yes,_ her subconscious argues back _, but it has been made abundantly clear what happens when the truth of the organization is spoken of._

With the weight of an Article Thirty-Two and the Pied Piper on the event horizon, she straps the holsters around her thighs and checks herself in the mirror. _M_ _y uniform should conceal them_ _efficiently_. She slips her uniform over her body, adjusting her Walther pistols so that her dress lies flat. _However, that means no storage closet time with Patrick_.

Piecing together the rest of her clothing until she is decent, she reasons that she will make it up to him later this evening before racing back down the stairs.

* * *

“Here you go, Doctor,” Nurse Franklin gives him a kind smile as she sets his cup of tea on his desk.

Covering the talking piece with his palm, he grumpily mutters, “Thank you.”

“Are the telephone lines still giving you trouble?” He rolls his eyes as he takes a sip of his tea, the young nurse capturing her waist in indignation. “We have been having the same issues at Nonnatus House. Twice we have had lost connections.”

He steals another sip, “I am currently on hold with the telephone company.” For the hundredth time within the hour, he glances towards the door hoping to find his wife with the answer as to how to fix the line. “At first, they had told me that there was nothing wrong, but then, the line was cut. Fortunately, they called me back and immediately put me on hold.”

“I do hope they find something soon,” Nurse Franklin sighs.

“I’ll make sure to send them your way next.” Just as she nods and turns back towards the door, Patrick calls out to her, “By the way, Mrs. Pendergast called Shelagh last night, frightfully worried. I want to make sure that all is right. Can you please place her on my list for this evening’s rounds?”

“Mrs. Pendergast?” Her brow dips in confusion. “Clara Pendergast?”

“Yes, fourth pregnancy, husband is far more anxious than his wife.”

“Doctor, that couldn’t have been Clara Pendergast, because the last time I had made a home visit, she had left a note for the landlord of their forwarding address… in Birmingham.”

He cradles the phone, his arms going limp as uncertainty presses against his skull. “Are you…” He thinks back to the previous night, beyond sure that Shelagh had said the name Pendergast. “Are you sure?”

“I placed the address correction on the patient files as well as in my notes.” She bites down on her bottom lip. “Would you like me to go get—”

“No, no; that’s not necessary.”

Indecision draws along her features, yet, she visibly pushes them aside. “Very well, Doctor. I will check on the patients in the maternity wing.”

He doesn’t even register that she is gone until he hears the soft click of the door shutting closed. Many questions begin to plague his mind, each one cutting deeper and deeper into his skin, his lack of answers frustrating him to no end. Yet, out of all of the questions filtering in and out, two keep popping up;

_Where did Shelagh go, if not to the Pendergast home?_

_Why could she not tell me?_


	5. Vulnerable

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please take note of the content warning. While the violence is not too graphic, it is something that you don't commonly see in this fandom.
> 
> I am once again at the mercy of Google Translation. The English translations will be in bold lettering. 
> 
> I hope you enjoy!

_Two days._ _Two bloody day._

Shelagh sighs, the flicker of a small desk light playing against her nerves, just as erratic as the clicks of letters being produced on the typewriter. 

She had just found out that her cover story is Swiss cheese. _Thankfully, I was able to catch it before Patrick found out, but even so…_

She pulls the note card from the typewriter, blowing on the ink to help it dry.

 _Someone else has knows of the address change_ , she flicks off the light, returning back out to the receptionist area, _it must have happened while I was helping Mr. Hereward._ She stuffs the card back into its rightful place. 

With a perpetual need to keep herself busy, she checks Patrick's dark office for the tenth time in so many hours; finding it just as still as the last time she had walked in. Just as she is about to close the door, his white coat catches her eye. _It looks better than the one I had to mend all those years ago_. Running her fingers along the sleeve, guilt strikes her deep. While she has not had to outright lie to him, she has noticed that since Boxing Day, he has been acting strange, almost disbelieving of her, always asking where she is going and who she is seeing. There have been so many moments that she had wanted to tell him the truth, but had stopped herself. His life would be automatically in danger from the very agency she served, not to mention the unknown of the Pied Piper himself. 

Closing the door to his office, she makes her way back to her desk, her mind now heavy with thoughts of the former Nazi.

 _How am I to take him on?_ For the past two days, she has thought of nothing else other than how he will strike. With the protection of the Nazi regime now a thing of the past and many agencies with him on their watch lists, she knows that he will have to rely on both the shadows and unofficial networks to get through undetected. While that works in her favor, she knows that he is a very resourceful and cunning man. He will not come out onto the street and kidnap her, nor take her out quickly with a sniper bullet. _He blames me for her death and, if he is as heinous as he was in Nazi Germany, he will want to take his time._

Settling down in her chair, she opens the drawer to her right, her fingers reaching in all the way towards the back past the objects that keeps this office organized. There, just within her grasp, she feels the cool, indifferent metal of her PPK, one magazine clip nestled just beyond it. 

With a quick look around the quiet room, she pulls it out, laying it in her lap so that if anyone were to come in she could easily conceal it within the folds of her dress. The weight of it feels familiar, almost as if it belongs in her hand, the grip of the handle inviting her to aim.

To shoot.

To kill.

 _No!_ Placing the pistol back where it belongs, she closes and locks the drawer. _I left the agency because I wanted a peaceful life, one not riddled with death._

Gathering the stethoscope from the top of the desk, she stands and makes her rounds through both the surgery and maternity wards. 'Routine is man’s savior.' Sister Monica Joan’s words helps her to put one foot in front of another, to make her smile feel genuine rather than forced.

Blood pressure checks, kind words to anxious mothers, even a new recipe for chicken noodle soup helps to calm her own apprehensive mind.

Yet, the moment all of that stops, her thoughts obediently returns back to the Pied Piper. _Waiting was never my strong suit._

“Ah, good evening, Mrs. Turner.”

Shelagh looks up to see Sister Evangelina walking through the door carrying a large envelope. “Good evening, Sister. I just conducted checks on the patients and all is well. Both Mrs. Simmons and Mrs. Blackwell are resting comfortably. Mrs. Gooden is starting to have contractions, although the waters are still intact.”

“With this being her first, I imagine that they are nothing more than practice rounds.” The older nun hands her the envelope. “This came to Nonnatus House today, however, it is addressed to your maiden name.”

“How?” She runs her fingers along the old address.

“We were just as surprised to see it as you are right now. The sender never addressed where it is from.”

Goosebumps erupt across the back of her neck, as if the package will explode any moment. “Thank you, Sister. I’m sure it must have gotten lost at the post office and they just found it.”

“I have to say that that is a better explanation than creatures from the great unknown giving us a sign through your celestial readings.” She rolls her eyes as she walks towards the maternity ward.

“Did Sister Monica Joan make it safely onto the train?”

“She had called us this evening to let us know that she has made it to her nephew’s house in one piece.” Sister Evangelina give a quick smile. “Have a good evening.”

“Good night, Sister Evangelina.” Waiting until the older woman is beyond the door, Shelagh rips open the package. Her mouth dries at the photographs that fall into her hands, her pulse thrashing against her throat.

 **YOU ARE** **VULNERABLE**   


One hand-written note signed in red ink and triple underlined accompanies five photographs of her former comrades, all with an X marked through them.

_Are they all…?_

She glances up at the window facing the street, wondering if the bullet meant for her is aiming at her head right now. While she has played this cat-and-mouse game many times during the war, she would never dare to bring it near so many innocent people. _The Pied Piper would, but why would he have these other people killed and how could he accomplish it from Argentina?_

Glancing back down, she takes out Lydia’s photograph. _She had left the program before I did to care for her dying mother. She had relocated to a location unknown as stated in the rules. Did she talk to someone about her role as a spy? Or did she meet her demise at the hands of a vengeful Nazi? She had seduced many of them._

She looks at the other photos, trying to piece together her memory of their lives as knew it; their personalities, assignments, what happened to them after the armistice was called. _With all of our various assignments and the means to which we had to successfully complete them, I’m not sure what has happened to them, especially after returning to Paris. I was hellbent on securing a passageway for Angelique when… when…_

Tearing up the photos, she places it back into the envelope. _It doesn’t matter._ Stopping by the boiler, she watches the fire reduce the envelope to black and grey ashes. _My job is not to investigate their deaths, it is to_ _protect my family at all cost._ She feels the holsters between her legs as she tips from one side to the other. _Maybe with some sewing, I can hide one of my small daggers in my belt._

 _As for the children_ , she makes her way back to the office to gather her bag, _with some convincing, hopefully I can send them off to Granny Parkers for the week._ She glances down at the calendar. _And_ _Patrick might not like it, but perhaps I can keep his case load heavy. He will be stressed, but at least he will be safe._

With a plan in place, she makes her way out of the surgery into the blustery, cold night.

* * *

“Timothy and Angela are fast asleep.”

Shelagh looks up through the reflection of her vanity mirror to see Patrick closing their bedroom door. “Good.”

He rocks back and forth on the balls of his feet as he stuffs his hands into his pocket.

 _Oh, my love_ , she sighs, _I am sorry for bring this onto you. Hopefully it won’t be too long until things settle back down to_ —

“I would like to take you out to dinner on New Year’s Eve.” He stares down at the carpet as he ruffles it with the tip of his toe. “Just me and you. I’ve already talked to Nurse Gilbert and she has agreed to watch the children for the evening.”

Her heart flourishes at the thought of Patrick setting up an evening for just them to enjoy, yet, it immediately shrivels at the thought of him being captured and tortured by the Pied Piper along with her. “Patrick, I don’t think that—”

“It has already been arranged.” His demeanor is timid, his voice, desperate. 

_Does he suspect anything?_ _Does he know about my past? About the danger lurking right outside of our house? Can he see my own desperation? Can he see through my own lies? Other than the night Charlie had to call me in, I have not had to lie to him. Not yet, at least, but when it comes time, then I will not hesitate to do so._

“Nevermind.” His heart literally breaks within his eyes. 

"Patrick!" _I can’t lose him, not yet, not with all that surrounds us._ "It...," she needs to for him to see reason with how dangerous a night out can be, but if she does that, then she will have to tell him the truth of her past. Dread at the idea of him hating her pounds against her throat. _Give him what he wants. Give it to him to save his life. Give t to him to save your marriage._ “It sounds amazing.”

“Really?” He is genuinely surprised and, that in itself, twists her stomach into shameful knots.

“Really.” Anxiety drips down her throat. “You have already given me so much with the necklace.”

He walks up to her and falls down onto his knees, kissing both of her hands. “A small price to pay when you give me life every day of the year.”

_And this is how I repay that love? With a secretive past that will soon be catching up within the next few days, possibly putting those I love in mortal peril._

“Do you truly want this?”

 _It is not a question of want and it never will be. His real question should be do I deserve it and, at this moment, I’m not even worthy of his love._ “I want...,” she captures his cheeks, “I want you.”

He covers her hands with quivering fingers. “I love you, my darling,” he takes a shaky breath, “please don’t ever forget that.”

She twists her wrist and selfishly kisses his palm. “Never.”

* * *

“Good morning, all.” Shelagh walks into the clinic room with the bag of insulin.

“Good morning, Nurse Turner,” sprinkles in from the women around her as she gives the bag to Sister Evangelina, the telephone ringing behind them. “Nurse Crane here will be at the maternity home with you this morning. With Mrs. Gooden’s recovery, I’d say she will be ready to go home by this afternoon.”

“Without any further ado, Mrs. Turner,” Nurse Crane closes her pack, “then we shall—”

“Excuse me, Mrs. Turner,” Nurse Gilbert comes around the corner, “but that was Doctor Turner. He telephoned here to tell you that Mr. Pendergast called. His wife’s waters broke. He will meet you at their flat.”

Debilitating panic begins to set in, steel claws wrapping itself around her neck, choking her under its piercing tips. “Thank you.”

“I shall bring you,” Nurse Crane kindly calls to her.

She should deny the offer, however, if she has any chance of arriving before Patrick, she has no choice but to accept. “Thank you, Nurse Crane. That is much appreciated.”

“Wait a minute,” Nurse Franklin calls to their retreating backs, “I have it in my notes that the Pendergast family had moved to Birmingham. How can they call if they are no longer in this district?”

“They must have come back. If you will excuse us,” Shelagh quickly motions for Nurse Crane to walk out with her.

Once they are settled in the car, driving towards their destination, Shelagh takes a moment to catalog the weapons on her body and in her bag. _Two PPKs in the holsters under my skirt. Four magazine clips and another PPK in my bag. One blade well hidden under the belt of my dress and two blades deep within the lining of the case._

“Are you sure that you and Doctor Turner will be okay?” The buildings blur into streaks of red and brown as Nurse Crane drives through the neighborhood. “Something doesn’t sit well knowing that the family has moved out of London altogether.”

Shelagh does everything in her power not to roll her eyes; the older woman’s concerns are legitimate, however no one else other than Shelagh knows of the possible danger that awaits. _And now with Patrick on his way there, he might get into the middle of it, killing himself in the process._ “When we get there, we shall assess what truly has happened. This family is far from creating dubious situations.”

“Very well,” she concedes. “Ah! Doctor Turner, as we speak. How fortuitous.”

 _Fortuitous, indeed_ , Shelagh silently remarks. “Thank you, Nurse Crane. I shall see you at the maternity home.” And before the older nurse has a chance to stop her, Shelagh is out the door and running towards her husband, “Patrick!” She pulls him into the shadows of the building as Nurse Crane drives by with a wave. “There’s no need for you to be here.”

His bright eyes turn sullen, heartbreak erasing his warm smile from his lips. “I had finished with my morning appointments early.”

“Patrick…,” she knows that, as a fact, he had four more appointments by the time she left to bring the insulin to Nonnatus House.

“Why are you so adamant for me not to be here?” His brow dips in distrust, his voice drawn as quiet as a whisper, “You lied about going to the Pendergast family on Christmas.”

“I… I…” _No! I will not put his life in danger, not when it comes to the Pied Piper._ “I can’t say.” As an afterthought, she adds, “I’m sorry.”

He straightens his back and takes a deep breath, “I’m sorry too.” He switches his bag to his other hand and steps aside for her. “Lead the way, darling.”

“Patrick,” she desperately grabs onto the lapels of his jacket, “please go back to the surgery. Please.”

“Shelagh, I’m not letting you go in there by yourself. Whoever it is that you are hiding, I want to know about him.”

 _Him? He thinks…_ “Patrick, I would never be unfaithful to you.”

“But you were lying about the Prendergast family.”

“Patrick, please, I… I…,” she swallows hard, her last playing card on the tip of her tongue, “I don’t want you to get hurt.”

His eyes widen in horror, “And you expect me to leave after that?!” He gently pushes her away with the hands she has adored since the moment he cradled her palm in the old parish hall kitchen. “Shelagh, I’m going up to that flat with or without you.”

Gripping her bag, she leads the way, now on high alert with both of them being out in the open. She had never had to worry about another soul when she had been in the agency, secure with the fact that Angelique was safe back at school and Charlie could take care of himself. _He doesn’t know what he’s getting into._ Determination sets in, his protection is her top priority no matter who they are at the mercy of. _He won’t like it, but I don’t care._

As they make it up the last set of stairs, she switches her bag to her less dominate hand, her senses heightened at the lack of any and all sounds. _Most families have moved out, yet they weren’t going to demolish this building for another three months._ Prepared for anything to happen, she walks up to the door of the old Pendergast home.

However, before she even gets a chance to knock, the door opens, dark shadows plaguing the once vibrant flat. “Doctor Turner first.” The accent is not what she expects, more Eastern European than what she is used to hearing.

She turns to him, the layout of the flat running through her mind. “Whatever happens, promise to listen to what I say.” He blanches, confusion dipping along his brow, yet, she doesn’t give up. “Promise me.” Her eyes turn to steel, her strength of will set; _we will make it out alive._

He doesn’t say anything back, instead stepping into the ominous flat with Shelagh following in close behind. “Who are you,” he murmurs, the dead silence unnerving to say the least.

Her fingers tighten around the handles of her own bag, taking a deep breath, relaxing her muscles as she exhales.

“The question you should be asking, Doctor Turner is,” the light clicks on, the sight of five men all pointing their own guns at point blank range is not as unsettling as the sight of Ernst Müller, “who was this woman before she became your wife.” He relaxes his stance. “How kind of you to bring her. We were under the impression that we would need to torture you to bring her out of hiding."

"What?"

Ernst ignores him, instead turning to her. "What a joy it is to see you again, Leisel,” his sinister smile widens, “or should I say Shelagh.”

“You were dead.” Her memories brings her back to his small shack of torture; the nail she drove into him to escape, rigging the boiler to explode.

“Yes,” he flamboyantly raises his hands in the air, “back from the dead by your own doing to continue our dalliance together.” He reaches out to caress her cheek. “You miss me?”

“I won’t fail this time,” she gives him a hard, cold stare, “I can assure you.”

“Ona je veľmi pekná,” the man behind her salaciously murmurs. **_She is very pretty_**.

Shelagh swallows down the overwhelming desire to vomit, “Z lahkoto te bom ubil.” She smirks at their silence, obviously surprised that she had understood their Slovak, its language derived from both Latin and German. **_I’ll easily kill you_**.

Patrick leans closer and asks, “What did you say?”

Before she can answer, Ernst calls to him, “You wife had told my friend here that she can easily kill him.” _Okay Shelagh, game plan. He will want to search me first, probably learning his lesson from the last time._

Patrick looses whatever color he had on his cheeks, “Shelagh? What is going on?” _Crush hand. Twirl man around, use body as a shield. Aim gun, shoot, pick off hostile at my seven and nine._

Again, Ernst answers for her, “Your wife is a wanted woman.” _Push body to Ernst, move Patrick towards the kitchen._ “While my boss is anxious to keep her alive, he is giving me the privilege to kill you and your son. My payment is your lovely daughter, who will fetch a high price.” _Dive towards hostile on my three, draw fire away from Patrick. Incapacitate with a punch to the throat and a bullet through the chin, death instantaneous._

Patrick attempts to make the first move, “Like hell you will.”

Ernst lifts his gun, the barrel barely touching Patrick’s forehead, “You move one more inch, I will unfortunately put a bullet through your skull.”

 _All of it depends on if I can move Patrick to a safe area, preferably next to the refrigerator._ “Patrick, before we came in, I made you promise me to follow my directions.” She places her bag on the floor, all the weapons that are needed already out in the open. “When I tell you, you will need to run towards the kitchen.”

He gives her an incredulous look, “But Shelagh—”

“If you want to make it out alive, then follow the directions I give you.” 

The men around them start laughing as Ernst translates. “One against five? You will surely lose.” The German looks to the man behind her, “Hľadať medzi nohami.” He turns back to Patrick, “Last time, she liked to carry her guns between those delicious thighs.” **_Search between her legs_** _._

 _Here we go._ Obediently widening her legs for the man behind her, she places her hands behind her head. The man lifts her skirt to her knees, his wondering fingers finally grazing over the perfect spot before striking.

Snapping her leg shut, she thrust her elbow back just as the man screams out, catching him in the nose. Twirling him around, the first round of bullets pierces his chest, saving her from certain death and, in return, she lifts his gun to fire two shots into the men at her seven and nine.

Just as she pushes the limp body into Ernst, she yells over her shoulder to Patrick, “Behind the counter, now!”

Using momentum from the body to her left, she pushes off of him and punches the man to the right. Capturing his gun, she twists it around so that it is pointing under his chin and pulls the trigger twice in quick succession.

Slipping her blade out from the belt of her uniform, she throws it with perfection, it stopping deep inside Ernst’s shoulder. He yells out when she catches up to him, using the hilt to swing him around so that his back is flushed against her chest. She pulls out the knife and presses it against the curve of his throat, “You are now outnumbered. Tell me who you work for.”

“Fahr zur Hölle.” He spits on her hand. **_Go to hell_** _._

“Ich werde dich dort sehen,” she whispers in his ear, slicing her blade through his throat. Blood instantly gushes out as she allows him to fall to the ground. Staring down at her former captor, liquid red pouring out from his body onto the floor, she reasons that she will need to confirm his death. Rearing the knife back, she throws it with as much velocity as she can muster, the blade shredding through his skull. **_I will see you there_** _._

“Shelagh?” She looks up to see Patrick, white as a sheet, staring back at her, over a million questions crossing his eyes.

“Patrick,” she steps up to him, yet he takes a hurried step away from her. She tries not to take it personally. _He’s in shock. Give him… give him some time._ “Patrick, we have to get out of here, quickly and quietly. I need…,” she takes a deep breath, unsure if he will comply, “I need for you to take one of my weapons.”

He pales even further. “Shelagh… I… I only have basic knowledge on weaponry. I didn't even carry one during the war.”

She pulls one of her pistols from the holster between her legs and hands it over to him. “You don’t have to be a sharpshooter; I need for you to provide coverage in front of us. I will be able to cover both of our sides and behind us.”

He takes the gun, yet he holds it listlessly in his palm. “You’ve had hand-to-hand combat training.” It’s a cross between a question and a factual sentence.

“There are many things that—” A sound outside the kitchen window catches her attention. Silently telling Patrick to keep quiet, she raises her pistol, ready to shoot just as the door cracks open. Taking a deep breath to steady her nerves, she rounds the corner.

Charlie and his two cohorts are the ones to greet her. She is the first to make her demand, “Name the city we first traveled to.”

“Brighton. You got a ninety-nine, however a dog off of his leash made you lose your balance and it dropped on the pier.” His stance stays locked. “Tell me about the address of our recent meeting.”

“Manet was the painter of both ‘Olympia’ and ‘The Railway’. I had fourteen confirm kills in Paris alone.” They are the first ones to relax their stance, Shelagh being the last one to lower her weapon. “How did Ernst know?”

“Doctor Turner’s surgery is being bugged.”

“And you didn’t fix it?” Patrick comes around the corner, the three in front of them raising their guns.

“How did he get in here,” the young woman asks.

Shelagh stands in front of Patrick with her own raised weapon. “They called him, wanting to use him as bait. Thankfully he telephoned me when I was at Nonnatus House.”

“Three minutes,” the tall man calls out.

“You both will have to come with us.”

“No.” Shelagh tightens her grip along her pistol. “I will fight the three of you and all other agents you have out there to keep us from Article Thirty-Two.”

“What is Article Thirty-Two?” Both Patrick and Charlie’s young protégé asks in unison.

Shelagh calls over her shoulder to Patrick, “Permanent disposal.” She can hear him whisper ‘Jesus’ under his breath but she instead concentrates on the problem ahead of her.

“There will be no Article Thirty-Two.” Charlie relaxes his stance again, the others following suit. “It’s not even practiced anymore.”

“One minute and fifteen seconds.”

 _But the other agents_ … Shelagh glances over to the young woman and lowers her weapon when she does, deciding to keep quiet about the envelope for now. “Very well, but no black bags. Patrick needs to know the truth, especially after what he has just seen.”

“Let’s go.” Charlie heads out first.

Bypassing the bodies littering the once bright flat, Shelagh picks off a few of their weapons and her medical bag before following him out. “Patrick, If you see anyone shooting at me, aim dead center and run like hell when you run out of bullets.”

“Not without you.” She can feel his eyes on her, the genuineness in his voice astounding her.

 _Even after all that he has seen…_ Keeping her eyes peeled for anything that had changed when they had made their trek towards the flat a half hour before, she makes sure to cover Patrick until a utility van pulls in front of them.

“Get in, quick.”

Filing in, the van is kicked into high gear just as the door slides shut. Shelagh, never letting her guard down, immediately says to the driver, “To Headquarters only. If I see any deviation, then I will not hesitate to shoot first and ask questions last.”

“You have my word,” the voice is instantly recognizable to Shelagh, “Headquarters is the safest place for you and your family right now.”

Shelagh looks to Charlie, only to find him just as shocked to find his boss driving the getaway car. In fact, the only one not shocked at this new turn of events is the man sitting oblivious next to her. “And the children?”

“We extracted once we found out that they were making their move.” Her cool blue eyes briefly glances in the rearview mirror. “Timothy and Angela’s providers are under the impression that you will be at Royal Hospital for an extended time and that a nurse was sent to pick them up. You will be able to see them once we have debriefed.”

“And who are you, exactly,” Patrick calls to the woman in the front, “their boss, I’m presuming.”

“I am their boss.” She makes a sharp turn onto a busy road, heading straight into the heart of downtown London. “My employees call me Mrs. Mannion, but you may call Eirene.”

Realization quickly lights Patrick’s face at the name, yet, it’s Shelagh who answers the question that he was just about to ask, “Patrick, this is my mother.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> #BadassShelagh


	6. Debriefing

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for all of the lovely support! The update will be a bit slower since I will be going back to work full-time.

“Good afternoon, dear.”

Shelagh looks up from the floor she had been staring at since the extraction team dropped them off in headquarters to see an elderly woman kindly smiling back at her. “Hello Mrs. Pattermore.” She stands and embraces the older lady. “How is your daughter?”

“She is doing just fine. She has three children of her own.” Pride beams in her wrinkled, bright green eyes. “And who is this fine gentleman?”

For the first time since introducing Patrick to her mother, Shelagh glances in his direction, however, she doesn’t dare to meet his eyes. “This is my husband, Patrick.”

“It is very nice to meet you, Patrick.” She holds out her hand as he stands from his own chair. “I am Mrs. Pattermore. It is my role to help to keep Headquarters up and running.”

“It is very nice to meet you as well.” Shelagh can feel his eyes on her, yet she continues to stare at the wall, afraid of what she will find if she glances at him. “I hate to be rude, Mrs. Pattermore, however, Mrs. Mannion,” he pauses uncomfortably at the name, “your boss had told us that our children are here. I want to see and talk to them right now.”

Her stomach tightens into a corded ball at the thought of Timothy and Angela, especially after what Ernst had taunted. _Thank goodness they are safe._

“I’m sorry, Doctor Turner, but the rules of the matter are extremely clear.” Mrs. Pattermore’s voice is gentle, yet, concise. “You are to clean up and to debrief with Mrs. Mannion.”

“But—”

“They are safe and, once both of you hand over all of your weapons, I will be able to take you to see them.” She holds out a metal bowl, expectancy at following her rules written plainly across her face.

Yet, it is Shelagh who is willing to put up a fight. “No!” She protectively steps in front of him. “That is his only form of protection if something should happen to me.”

Mrs. Pattermore lays a gentle hand over Shelagh’s arm. “Times have changed, my dear. There’s no risk for you or your family. You are protected.”

“I believe you in your sincerity, Mrs. Pattermore and I believe my mother, but a lot has changed, and I am not willing to risk Patrick’s life or our children when the rules can easily be bent in this game.” She will never give in on this, not with the envelope she had received last night. _The only logical reason is that there has to be a mole. But who?_

“Shelagh,” Patrick sighs, but she stands her ground.

“No, Patrick.” Her eyes stay trained onto Mrs. Pattermore who ticks between the married couple. “That gun is your only line of defense.”

“And with a building full of well-trained soldiers, you think I would be able to make it out in one piece?” The bite in his voice cuts her deeply.

Logically, he is correct, however, she can’t let it go. “You have a better chance than with no weapon at all.”

Just as she hears him take a breath in to respond, Mrs. Pattermore cuts in. “I will discuss this with Mrs. Mannion. For now, you will be able to keep your weapons, however, be advised that you might have to forfeit them when you go in for the debriefing.” With no more room for discussion, Mrs. Pattermore steps to the side to allow them entrance. 

Careful not to touch each other, both husband and wife follow after the older woman through the back door. Pressing a discrete button on the telephone, another door pops out from the wall with a dark corridor ahead of them. “We will stop by the medical ward first so that you can see Timothy and Angela.”

Silently, they follow. No side glances. No words of encouragement or explanation. No touching. Just cold, unrelenting silence, their footsteps against the tile giving their own timid cadence.

Mrs. Pattermore invites them into another corridor, one that is as bright and clean as a new hospital. Coming up to the first door, both parents attempt look through the window, bumping shoulders in the process. Being the one who had kept this part of her life as secret in the first place, Shelagh meekly steps to the side to allow him look first.

“They look healthy enough,” Patrick invites Shelagh to the window with the flick of his wrist.

Peaking in, she sees that Angela is napping in a cot while Timothy is practicing the piano, his homework left open on the desk next to him.

“When they were picked up, we had explained to Timothy that both of you were at the hospital with an important case.” Mrs. Pattermore kindly explains to both of them. “Once your debriefing is finished, you will be able to take them home.”

For the first time since leaving the old Pendergast flat, their eyes meet. Although she does not see hate or malice, his normally vibrant hazel eyes are devoid of all color and life. “Then let’s get this over with.”

Leaving the children within the safe harbor of their room, they once again quietly follow Mrs. Pattermore through a maze of corridors until they reach a white paneled door. “This is where I leave you. 112 will be by to take you to the conference room.” She holds out her hand to Patrick, “It was nice to have met you.”

He shakes her hand, “Likewise.”

The older lady takes Shelagh into a tight embrace, “Take care of yourself, Shelagh.”

“It was nice to see you, Mrs. Pattermore.”

“He’ll come around,” the elderly lady whispers into her ear. With one more kind smile, she opens the door for them and snaps it shut after they walk in.

The windowless room is ordinary with a vanity, a small sofa, and a clothing rack with exact replicas of his suit and her uniform. The door on the opposite side opens to a small bathroom and next to it is a metal hatch. “What do we do now?” Patrick looks utterly lost as to what to do first.

“We clean up.”

He refuses to move. “You have blood all over you.”

She stares at their clean clothing, guilt at her silence and shame at her deceit all melding together tightly within her chest. “I wanted to tell you, but—”

“You couldn’t,” he dryly finishes, “so I’ve gathered.” He brushes by her, tugging at his tie, dousing them into a deafening nothingness as he changes out of his clothes.

She hates this, hates what all this has become. _I wish I could take it all back, never even signed on to help with the carol singing._ She stares at his ridged back, his muscles coiled in tension. _Even then, my life has been nothing but one big lie to begin with. I won’t blame him if he wishes to never see me again._ She lets down her hair, Ernst’s blood matted into it, sticky and hard to comb her fingers through. “I am going to take a shower.”

“What do I do with this?” She turns to see him holding out the gun she had given him.

“I want you to keep it.” Her heart pounds against her throat, unsure of how to convince him with the agency spying on them in this room. “There are other things going on and I don’t want you to be without some sort of protection.”

His brow dips in confusion. “What about you?”

Her heart soars to the very tips of the clouds. “It has been a long while, but I will be able to improvise.” Lifting the hem of her uniform and slip, she unclips her empty holsters and gives it to him. “When you have changed, place this on you belt, over your left hip.”

“Is that where you keep all of your weapons?” He gazes at her legs, the gun no longer of interest for him.

Her cheeks flush bright red at the husk in his voice. “It’s where I keep my guns.”

And within a snap, the hazy spell that they had suddenly fallen into, shatters like a bullet to a mirror. Turning away from her, he holsters the pistol and lays it on the table next to him.

Her fingers itch to reach out to him, to comfort him, to love him the way he needs to be loved. Yet, she curls her fists against the folds of her dress, guilt once again clawing its way around her heart, uncertainty electrifying the air between them.

Gathering her own clothes from the rack, she quietly makes her way to the bathroom.

* * *

“I don’t want you to lie to me,” is the first thing he murmurs when she steps out of the steam-filled bathroom.

Her arms fall flat against her sides, her hair still dripping onto her uniform. She briefly wonders how long he has been wanting to say that to her. Silently taking him in; his tense muscles, his over-anxious fingers smoothing his fingerprints, the slight pull of his cheek from him biting the inside of his mouth; she guesses that that is all he has thought about during the entire time she had been in the bathroom. _Possibly even before_. Once again, like the constant tides of the ocean, a wave disgust at her behavior punches her in the pit of her stomach. “I will be completely honest with you.”

“You’ve lied to me all this time,” he quietly murmurs under the low dip of his brow, the sound of the other shoe dropping ringing loudly in her ears.

“I was told to never tell anyone of my time here at the agency. If I did, then I was assured that in order to keep the anonymity of this organization intact, an agent would have taken both of us to a small dump site to be killed.” His poor features blanch yet again. “I never wanted to take that risk, not when it meant the lives of both you and the children.” When he says nothing in response, she takes the gun from the table and checks the magazine clip before re-holstering it.

“How do you know the other man, the bloke that came with us?”

“Charlie and I were partners during the war.” She walks to the vanity and brushes her wet hair back into a tight bun. “While we both had our own missions to complete, we would often check in with each other as well as work a few smaller cases together. We would spend most of our time either feeding misleading intelligence to the Germans or assassinating a few of the lower level officers.”

—Knock, Knock—

Fitting the holster onto Patrick’s belt, she opens the door opens to the same man they had been discussing. “We are ready for you both.”

“When can I have my bag back?”

He gives her a rouge smile, “You know, as well as I do, ma petite araignée, that you will get everything back when the debriefing is finished.”

She protectively stands in front of Patrick, “He is to stay with me the whole time.”

“I told you,” Charlie rolls his eyes, “we do not condone those practices anymore. We have not practiced them since the end of the war.” Despite his bureaucratic words, she does not move until she has his promise in hand. “I promise, Shelagh, you and your family are protected. In fact, it is one of our highest priorities right now, following closely after the whereabouts of the Pied Piper, of course.” He steps to the side and, with the flare of his hand, he invites them out into the empty corridor.

Despite everything that has happened between them; the lying on her part, the shock of all that has transpired, the fear that is still beating within both of their hearts; she instantly threads her fingers into his hand.

To her total surprise, he squeezes her hand before nudging her towards the corridor.

As they pass by an endless sea of locked doors and closed windows, the silence that catapults between the trio no longer feels jittery, but rather apprehensive. 

“Shelagh,” her mother stands from the chair as they walk into the room, “please come in. Mrs. Pattermore told me of your request.” She walks up to the three of them, their clasped hands falling loosely by their sides, Charlie instantly fading into the background, “We will be able to comply, however, if weapons are drawn, then we will have no choice to draw ours as well." Her mother then smiles kindly at Patrick, "Doctor Turner, I know this is all a big shock for you, however, I am very excited to finally meet you.”

His polite smile is tense, “It is very nice to meet you as well, however,” he looks crossly over to Shelagh, “in my defense, I was told that you were dead.”

“While I understand you anger towards my daughter, she was just simply following orders at the time.”

“And how is it that you understand my frustration?”

“I’ve had to fake my own death to continue working for this organization, instantly and painfully separating myself from my family. It was, I assure you, not an easy decision to make, however, with the threat of war coming upon us, I decided to put my country and, in the grand picture, my family first above my own needs.”

Shelagh remembers it all so well. The accident, the closed casket service, the lonely nights she had spent thinking about her mother, all of it coming to its peak when she found her alive and well in the heart of Edinburgh during a trip with her school. _That is when my whole life changed_.

Patrick turns to her, “What about your father? Your brothers?”

She had told him of their passing; both of her brothers being a casualty of war while her father succumbed to the grief of the death that had surrounded him. “Their deaths were exactly what I had told you.”

“And this Pied Piper chap?”

Charlie is the first one to answer by placing a picture on the board. “His name is Otto Adolf Liebl. During the war, he was the mastermind behind the network of the death camps. He was tasked to facilitate the mass deportation of Jews and other undesirables, as well as the logistics of identification and assembly of those camps, including, but not limited to Auschwitz and Treblinka.”

Patrick walks up to the board and takes a closer look at the picture. “He escaped,” he turns back to Shelagh, “I remember seeing it in the newspaper.”

“To Argentina,” she confirms.

“He was her top priority,” Eirene cuts in. “Shelagh’s job was to infiltrate the family through their daughter at a boarding school in Luxembourg.”

“Once there, I was to gain intelligence for the British.”

“So, during the war, you were sent to spy on Otto Liebl through his daughter,” Patrick slowly confirms with the others in the room. “Yet, right after the war he escaped to Argentina.” Shelagh nods. “And now, fifteen years later, he’s come back to England.” He glances around the room. “Why? Why risk his freedom?”

The memories she had so carefully and so painfully pinned away rakes through her mind, tearing her heart to shreds. “He believes that I killed his daughter,” Shelagh immediately answers. She doesn’t dare to look up at Patrick, but she can fell him pulling away from her. “We had struck a friendship while I was undercover. While I was convinced of her father’s heinous acts, she had no idea of his true work. She knew that he worked for the Nazis, but, for most of time, she genuinely thought that he was just an accountant.”

“Fille stupide,” Charlie mumbles under his breath. **_Stupid girl_**.

Shelagh glares at him, yet, continues on with the story. “Towards the end of the war, she had confided in me that she discovered what her father truly did and was ashamed of him; her resentment coming on the curtails of her brother’s death against the Russians. She asked me to take her away to Paris and I did.”

“Didn’t she know that you were a spy sent to infiltrate her family?”

“I told her that I knew someone in London that could help and protect her, in exchange for any information she had seen or heard at her house. Yet, before we could confirm our deal, the Americans and the Russians invaded Berlin. With the fall of the Nazi Party at the news of Hitler’s death, Liebl came to Paris, desperately searching for her, where he found us in a small flat near the Seine.”

“You had the chance to kill him right there,” the young woman from the extraction team exclaims. “The first rule they tell us is to never waste the perfect shot.”

“You are looking at the reason why that is our number one rule,” Charlie murmurs to his protégé.

Shelagh grits her teeth, “Angelique was a dear friend of mine. She knew of her father’s deeds, his crimes, and yet, she still loved him dearly. Instead, she had begged for him to run away and to never look back.”

“However,” Eirene calls out, “he had other plans.”

Shelagh hangs her head, all the fight she had from their morning gone on the wings of a discontented sigh. “He didn’t know of my true identity at the time. He knocked me out and took her. When I came to, they had both disappeared, however knowing his original plan, I knew his only safe haven was at the Notre-Dame Cathedral.”

“Why there,” Patrick asks.

“That is how most Nazis escaped, was through the direct or indirect help of the Catholic Church,” Eirene answers.

He shakes his head and mutters under his breath, “How poetic.”

“When I caught up, they were just in sight of the cathedral, crossing the bridge. I knew that once they were inside, they would disappear forever, so I threw my knife and struck him in the shoulder. When I caught up, Angelique was hysterical, her father claiming that he will never stop looking for her. Just as I was restraining him, she climbed on the banister and jumped.” Shelagh stares down into her lap, shame deeply rooted and lodged in her throat keeps her from telling the remainder of the story.

“Angelique obviously didn’t survive the jump. The Pied Piper escaped, but not before concluding that Shelagh was the reason for his daughter’s death.” Charlie settles down next to her, reaching out to one of her hands in her lap.

“When I arrived,” Eirene finished the story, “she asked to be disposed, meaning she wanted to be erased from our records, to go out and to live a normal life. That is when she ultimately met you,” both mother and daughter glance at Patrick.

Taking a few minutes, he looks around the room, mainly at the pictures of both Otto and Angelique. She can tell that he is overwhelmed, his fingers are always so fidgety in situations of high stress. “So,” he turns back to her, “how did all of this change?”

“The BBC Christmas broadcast,” Charlie calls out. “A number of his contacts had seen her, contacts we never knew he had. In response, he went dark as did most of those contacts. He is here, we are just not sure where.”

“And he wants to kill you for something that has happened over fifteen years ago?” His brow dips in confusion. “He risked his life just to come back and to avenge a death that she had nothing to do?”

“Make no mistake, Patrick,” Eirene soothes, “Otto Liebl is a dangerous man. On paper, he might have been just part of logistics, but in real life, he was just as heinous as some of his more famous counterparts, such as Mengele. He used his power to hurt and to inflict pain. He will not simply put a bullet in Shelagh’s head. He will torture her.” 

Any and all color he had been able to retain from the day’s activities, quickly drains, his eyes finding Shelagh, his heart visibly breaking. “What can we do?”

“Shelagh is well trained, as you have witnessed this morning,” Eirene beams with pride. “The first thing you need to do is to send the children to their Grandmother Parker’s house. There, we will have a surveillance crew watching them every minute of every day that they are there.”

“What about Shelagh?” Patrick looks down at her, worry etched along the lines of his face. “How can I protect her?” A small laugh condescendingly calls out in response and like a starters pistol, he turns to the cocky man still holding Shelagh’s knuckles. “Who the bloody hell are you to laugh?”

Charlie stands, their heights matching in size, “You think you can protect her. It’ll be you that she will need to protect.”

“Charles,” Eirene warns.

“No! It was foolish for her to leave the convent all for the sake of marriage. And for who,” Charlie takes a step closer, his face barely an inch away from Patrick’s, “someone who is just as weak and needy as Angelique.”

Shelagh stands up from her chair and pushes against Charlie’s chest with the tips of her fingers; her stance next to Patrick, his willingness to stand by her, giving her strength. “I married him because I love him, deeply and truly. There was and will never be an ulterior motive.”

Charlie is the first to duck his head and to take a step back.

She turns to her mother, “I will teach him some of the basics and we will not leave each other’s side. It’ll be hard to explain, but it’ll get done.”

Her mother looks to Patrick, her crystal blue eyes just as piercing as ever. “Think about what you are saying Patrick. Liebl will not hesitate to torture and to kill you, all for the sake of pure enjoyment. We can place you and the children in a safe location.”

“No,” he immediately answers, her heart bursting like a firework when he captures her hand within his own, “I will stand by my wife.”

“Very well,” Eirene stands, “Charles and Iris, please return back to the logistics room. I want a full detailed plan for all points of entry on my desk in one hour.”

“Wait,” Patrick calls out, “I have one more question; how did they know to lure Shelagh to the Pendergast flat?”

“They put a transmitter on your telephone,” Iris explains.

Pressing a button to a machine the size of a suitcase, static fills the room and, just beyond, everyone can hear Patrick’s voice, _‘By the way, Mrs. Pendergast called Shelagh last night, frightfully worried. I want to make sure that all is right. Can you please place her on my list for this evening’s rounds?’_

_‘Mrs. Pendergast?’_ Nurse Franklin barely comes through. _‘Clara Pendergast?’_

_‘Yes, fourth pregnancy, husband is far more anxious than his wife.’_

_‘Doctor, that couldn’t have been Clara Pendergast, because the last time I had made a home visit, she had left a note for the landlord of their forwarding address… in Birmingham.’_

There is a small pause. _‘Are you…’_ Another pause. ‘ _Are you sure?_ ’

Iris turns off the machine, silence filling the room, tension once again rising to unbearable levels, until Patrick murmurs, “It seems as if they have been one step ahead of you this whole time.”

“An oversight that will not happen again,” Eirene replies back as she stares at Charlie. “Dismissed.” When the other two file out of the room, she turns towards her daughter, “After the clean-up at the Pendergast flat, our agents were able to return your vehicle." She takes a deep breath, "I know you both have been through so much today, however, I would love to meet my grandchildren.”

Shelagh looks to her husband first, exhaustion beginning to take root by the slight sigh that escapes his lips. “We cannot stay. We have so much to do.” At her mother’s downcast features, she compromises, “However, we can introduce you as my aunt.”

“Thank you,” Eirene opens the door leading to the corridor, “please follow me.”


	7. Training

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you again for your continuous support!!! With work going into full crazy mode, the next update might not be until next weekend.

“The children are asleep,” Shelagh steps into the parlor and closes the door.

“Tim was quite excited that he is able to skip school to go to his grandmother’s house,” he straightens his back to fully look at her. “Granny Parker, on the other hand, was confused and upset that I would put work before family.”

Shelagh bites down on the inside of her bottom lip. The cover story that they had come up with was that they had a complex case that will be taking them outside the parish and that they will be unable to properly watch the children. It was not perfect by any means, but it was the only option they had, given their limited time.

“So, tell me,” he stands and steps around the coffee table, “when do we begin our training?” He looks eager, yet, she can see anger simmering underneath, ready to burst from a small spark.

“Patrick—”

“No! I don’t want your pity.” His jaw tenses when she looks up to him. “Don’t look at me that way either, Shelagh.”

“You’re angry.”

“Damn right I’m bloody angry,” he explodes, his hands thrown into the air out of frustration. He stalks back and forth in front of her, fury and pain circling around him like a powerful maelstrom. Abruptly stopping, he breaches her personal space, yet with all that he has been through, she allows it. “I’ve just found out that everything you’ve told me of your past is a lie.”

“I was told—”

“Yeah, yeah,” he swipes his hand through the air, “you were not allowed to divulge your little secret to me. I was able to gather that from our debriefing earlier.” At her silence, he rolls his eyes and continues his march across the length of the parlor.

She bows her head, her arms protectively crossing along her chest. She understands his resentment towards her, in fact, she would be more concerned if he wasn’t livid. However, it’s his distrust her, vehemently and without recourse, that pains her the most.

Not for the first time within the span of the day does she regret participating in the Christmas broadcast; her secret would have still been her secret and her family would still be safe. _However, wishing for the past to rewrite itself is just as useless as trying to pin smoke to a wall._

She lifts her chin to see her husband, the love of her life, in agony. _He hides it well, but it is there._ Just as he passes in front of her, she reaches out and captures his arm. He stops, but he doesn’t wrench himself away. “The love I have for you was never a lie, nor will it ever be as such. The moment you touched me, kissed my hand with your lips, healed me with your diagnosis, is the moment I became alive.”

“Yes, but don’t you see,” he gathers her into his embrace, his palms cradling her cheeks, “the moment you became alive is the moment your death certificate was signed.”

Realization punches her in the stomach. “Are you blaming yourself for all that has happened?”

His features falter, heart break etched along the curve of his brow. “If it weren’t for the moment that I touched you or kissed you or, even, diagnosed you, then you would still be safe with your Sisters, living a life free from all those who wish to hurt you.”

She grabs ahold of the lapels from his opened shirt, “But then I would have never experienced this life with you, a love that I yearn for, a family that I have always wanted.” Starting from his temple, her fingers trail down until she reaches the edge of his jaw, her thumb gliding along the lips she has kissed numerous times. “I would have remained living, yes, but, I can assure you, it would have been an empty one.”

“Then tell me,” he whispers, “tell me how I can fix this.”

 _Ever the doctor,_ she silently quips, _always wanting to fix things even when he is unable to._ She closes her eyes and shakes her head, “There is no way to fix it.”

He pulls away from her, the coolness from the stale air rushing between them, causing her to shiver in his wake. “I don’t believe that, not for one second. There is always a solution, we just haven’t come up with it yet.”

“The solution is there, Patrick, you just won’t like it.” He stares at her with an innocence she craves, a pure heart that strives to look for the good in people rather than the evil that lurks. _That was the weakness Charlie had spoken of._ However, that same pure heart is the one she fell in love with and it is the one that she will carry with her long after she is captured or dead.

Comprehension of her words slowly unravels upon his features, fire flaming through his eyes at her meaning. “Your mother had warned me.”

“You should have heeded her advice.”

“No!” He grabs her arms and pleads, “Never. You are our foundation, my wife, Tim and Angela’s mother.” His hands fall to capture her fingers. “There has to be a different way.”

The pad of her thumb runs along the back of his hand, a small act that has comforted him during times of strife. “Not if we want to kill him once and for all.”

“And so they will just use you as bait.”

“No, my dearest,” she pushes up on the tips of her toes and gently kisses his forehead, “I’m the one who messed up in the first place and it is my responsibility to clean it up.”

His grip tightens, “And what about your responsibility to your family?”

“My love for you and for our family will not stop Liebl from coming after us.” Her brows knit together to help keep her emotions at bay. “I dare say, he will rather use that to his advantage.” She swallows hard. “That is why I am going to teach you a few basic techniques in weaponry and logistics.”

Letting go of her hand altogether, he crosses his arms along his chest. “I don’t want any of that,” he petulantly murmurs, “not right now.”

Despite his sour features, the coolness of his indifference trying in vein to sting her, she can see the exhaustion darkening his eyes. “I will save our lessons for tomorrow, however, let me show you one last thing.” Taking a step back, she swipes the transistor radio and encourages him to follow her into the storage closet.

‘Will You Love Me Tomorrow’ plays in the background as she reaches for her Bible, the one she had received when she became a novitiate. Flipping to Isaiah, she shows him the series of numbers by pushing the pages into a fan, “Memorize it,” she whispers. Taking a spare piece of paper, she writes, ‘ _It will take you to a deposit box at the Bank of England. You will find everything there for you and the children to move out of the country without being detected.’_ She shows him the number one more time.

Fear and agony coils through his gentle eyes, yet, he nods in understanding.

Closing her Bible, she takes it, along with the note, back into the parlor, where she throws it into the fire. It smolders and burns until all of the pages are curled into ashes. “That is your only chance if things don’t go as planned.”

He stares into the fire, fury once again crossing along his brow. “In this business, how many times have things gone according to plan?”

For the first time since the moment she received Charlie’s call, she can feel all the color draining out of her cheeks, total helplessness encapsulating her heart, fear quenching he throat. “Never.”

Capturing his hand, she turns off the radio and takes him upstairs.

* * *

“I just got off the phone with Nonnatus House,” Shelagh walks into the parlor to see Patrick trying desperately to read The Lancet. “They are not happy with the story I told them, but they understand.” Instead of sitting down next to him, she stands in front of the coffee table, back straight, hands clasped behind her back as if she is reporting to her mother. “Sister Julienne told me that they will be hosting a benefactor this evening for tea. With Sister Monica Joan visiting her nephew, she was more inclined to invite him to Nonnatus House.”

“There are many repairs that are in desperate need.” His eyes are glazed, obviously not taking in any of the words from his magazine, his jaw clenched in annoyance.

Their night together was awkward and bereft of any true sleep; his mind whirling a million miles per minute while she thought of every possible scenario for Liebl to strike. Yet, despite all of the uncertainty facing them, never once did they touch each other. She was careful to keep her hands on her chest while he kept his back to her. Throughout the whole night, she desired nothing more than to reach out, to comfort him, however, she held back. _His rejection would have slowly killed me_.

“Oh, for goodness sakes, Shelagh,” his ire bursts, “sit down.”

Her fingernails dig into the palms of her hands at his tone, her body’s resistance to calm with this vast unknowingness swallowing both of them whole, casting them in the dark, murky waters that they had only trespassed through in times of marital strife. _There is not much time left_. “Come with me,” she steps towards the kitchen, “I need to show you all of the weapons.”

“Shelagh, we have—”

“No, we don’t!” She glances over to see that he is still on the sofa, The Lancet now thrown on the table. “We have a day, two at the most, until the Pied Piper and his henchmen will strike. I don’t want to leave us vulnerable.”

“You mean with my lack of military and weaponry training?”

His words, doused in self-doubt and anger, quite literally tears her heart apart. For the past twenty-four hours, they have been walking on eggshells around each other, never quite knowing where to stand or when to speak. However, despite the tension fluttering between them, the overwhelming desire to protect their family melts in the face of his anger towards her, oppressive images of what Liebl can do to him spurring her forward. “Come into the kitchen, please.”

Silently standing, he steps in with her, the faint trace of his fingers brushing along her hip in an effort to squeeze past her. “I hate guns.” He is the epitome of a petulant child; arms crossed, sour face, stubbornness etched into his words.

And while she understands his hatred, would even agree with him under normal circumstances, she can’t help but to bite back with a good dose of slap-your-face-honesty. “The men who will come after us will never hesitate to use a gun or any other kind of weapon. They will enjoy tying you up, torturing you all for the sake of what they deem as ‘fun’, all the while taunting you by using the same methods on the children. These weapons that you are vehemently against are the same ones that can save you from certain pain and death.”

Not even waiting for him to respond, she opens the cabinet to the array of weapons. “There are three of these hidden compartments in the house. No one will be able to access them without this,” she holds of the key, “which can unlock all of them.”

Glancing at him, she notices that his cheeks are still puckered, however, he is taking in everything that she is telling him.

“The other compartments have the same weaponry in them.” She pulls out the pistol first. “This is a standard issued PPK.” She unclips the magazine. “All you have to do is to push the button to drop the empty magazine and to push in a full one.” She demonstrates for him before unloading it again and giving it to him. “Now you try.”

With a timid hand, he takes the pistol in his left and the magazine in his right, he is smoothly able to load the gun, in which she is not surprised at, despite his abhorrence to them.

Just as he is about to give it back, she says, “Take aim at the vase on the windowsill.”

“I’m not going to shoot the vase,” he rolls his eyes, “not when it has done nothing to me.”

“I don’t want you to shoot it, I want to see your stance.” Seeing an argument forming on the tip of his tongue, she firmly reiterates, “Take aim at the vase.”

Visibly biting the side of his cheek, he lifts the gun and aims it towards the vase.

“Hold still.” Stepping around him, she takes note of his stance and grip, which, in her personal opinion is one that would put more bullets into the wall rather than in a person trying to chase him down.

“When you lift the gun, make sure you support the bottom with your other hand.” She unravels the fingers from his less dominate hand and moves it under the handle.

“Raise it to eye level. You should be able to stand straight.” She lifts his elbows higher with one hand while the other lightly pushes against the small of his back.

“While your stance is good, keep in mind that the bigger the gun, the bigger the kickback. You always want to lead with your dominate side, which for you, is your left side.” Capturing his right hip, she encourages him to step back.

“During basic training, we were just given a gun and told to aim true before firing.” His chin tilts to the side, his body snuggled against hers, the closest they had been since sharing the hall closet the night before.

“Did you ever fire your gun?”

His eyes gloss over as a distant memory courses through his mind, Shelagh grabs the pistol just as his arms listlessly fall down to his sides. “Once. A gang of men from Mussolini’s army stormed through the hospital, one of their last-ditch efforts to push back the advancing line. I was in the general ward when they had come in, picking off nurses and patients with no sense of morality. Picking up a gun from an American officer right next to me, I shot back. I had only hit two by the time reinforcements had come in.” His brow furrows as his eyes dart towards the ceiling. “They had killed all of them.”

She reaches up to capture his arm, yet, at the last minute, she retracts it, scared that her touch will only make him angry. “Those soldiers would have killed you and the people around you without a second thought.”

“That was war.”

She knows that, for the most part, he is correct, however, with her training as a field operative, she would never be naïve to think that wartime is the only time bad guys are allowed to come out. “Peacetime doesn’t stop people from being a horrible human being.”

He steps out of their embrace and turns to face her, annoyance flaring through his normally gentle eyes. “Don’t patronize me. I understand the notion that there are criminals in our world and that we have to protect our family from them.” He crosses his arms tightly along his chest. “I blame you for bringing this onto our family.”

Her lungs deflate, the fight she had building within her chest rushing out just like a balloon with a hole. “You have every right to blame me for I blame myself in every regard as to the danger I have placed on our family.” Hatred spews through her as ragged as the cliffs dropping off into the sea. “However,” she looks to him, “fighting over where to place the blame will not save our family from torture or death at the hands of the Pied Piper.” She holds out the pistol for him to take. “Please, take aim.”

Taking the gun, he aims it at the vase, adjusting himself with the suggestions she had made before.

“Good.” She widens the hidden compartment. “There are several magazines in here. If we are under attack, take as much as you can.” Opening her palm, she takes the pistol back from him and exchanges it for a knife. “These knives can help with a quick getaway. You hold the blade as if you are shaking someone’s hand.” She demonstrates the grip for him. “Take the same stance I had shown you, aim, and throw.” She shows him the motion. “Make sure to keep your wrist locked. Allow the blade to slip out of your hand.”

“And if it slices my hand?”

“Then you are holding it too tightly. Your wrist should be locked while your grip is relaxed.” She shows him the motion a few more times. “After showing you the other weapons, we will be going to headquarters to practice.”

“Fun.” Sarcasm drips from his voice as he rolls his eyes.

Instead of reacting, she stows away the blade and locks the cabinet. Leaving the kitchen, she shows him the cabinet in the hall closet before going upstairs. After showing him the location of the last cabinet, she takes him into their bedroom. “There is a pistol and an extra clip in your bedside drawer as well as mine. There are knives in the wardrobe and an assault rifle with its corresponding magazine clips under our bed.”

“How long has – bloody hell!” His eyes widen to the size of saucers when she pulls the rifle out from under the bed with the detached clip.

“These will produce maximum damage.”

“I’ve seen the damage it can do, thank you very much.” Resentment once again reverberates in the air between them, his eyes cold.

“I don’t suggest you use this one unless it is absolutely necessary.” She rests the butt of the rifle against her shoulder, “First attach the magazine, aim, and pull the trigger. There will be a powerful kickback with this one, so make sure your stance is strong.” Her right foot steps back as her hips tilt to square off with the rest of her body.

“Is there a weapon that you don’t know how to use?”

She glances over to him to see that he looks more curious than anything. “Unless they have come out with a newer weapon in the past fifteen years, which would not surprise me, then most of these guns are basically all the same, the firing mechanism and the bullets being the only main difference.” Taking out the magazine, she places the rifle back under the bed. “In addition to the weapons we have here, I am trained with a rifle, a machine gun, a grenade launcher, and a bow and arrow.”

Unsuccessfully suppressing a laugh, he asks, “A bow and arrow?”

“Believe it or not, they are extremely useful, especially if you are without weapons and on the run. They are easy to make and can cause just as much damage.”

He shoves his hands deep inside his pocket. “Are there other things you are trained in?” He lifts his brow and hastily adds, “Other than lying.”

Again, she allows his last comment to slip off her shoulder, there is no use repeating her reasons, not when his emotions are fragile. “I am trained in espionage, hand-to-hand combat, parachuting, and flying small aircraft.” His mouth hangs open in astonishment. “I am also fluent in most European dialects, including some of the eastern countries between Germany and Russia, some Russian, and some Middle Eastern.”

He blinks slowly, “Wow.”

She shrugs, “Although, in my defense, I was taught Latin at an early age. Once you have that, most of those languages comes easily.” Pulling her two pistols from her bedside drawer, she lifts her dress and holsters them along side her legs. “Each language is built upon one another. Once you find the pattern, then… then…,” she tilts her head to the side when she notices that he is no longer focused on what she is saying.

With her dress hitched around her waist, his eyes rake along the naked curves of her legs, from ankle to hip. “Wow,” he murmurs under his breath, all of the anger that he has held on to this morning, melting away into something more… carnal.

She can feel her cheeks flush, sizzling heat settling low in her belly. As much as she wants to touch her husband, to whisper words of love onto his skin, she has to keep herself from appeasing the desires she desperately wants to achieve. Allowing her skirt to flutter down to cover her legs, she hoarsely mutters, “We have to get to headquarters.”

His eyes never leave her body as he shifts from one foot onto the other. “And what will an extra hour accomplish?”

“You are still angry at me.”

“Your damn right I am!” He finally looks into her eyes, his shoulders sagging in defeat. “I can’t bare the fact that the day we will be pulled apart is coming sooner than I had ever imagined.”

And, as much as she wants to deny that they will never part, she can’t, not when she is offering herself as bait to finally apprehend the Pied Piper. Instead, she voices what has been bursting within her heart since the moment they shared their first cigarette, “I love you.”

“Don’t say that to me,” he dejectedly whispers, “not when I am supposed to be furious at you for keeping something like this from me or infuriated that I am now placed in a position to defend my family with these damn weapons I had promised myself many years ago that I would die before touching.” He takes a small step towards her, timid and cognizant of the personal space she would love for him to push through.

She takes a small step back. “I deserve all of it, Patrick, and none of your love.”

He captures her hand, the same he had professed his feelings to, and gently squeezes it. “You are my wife, the love of my life, the mother of our children. I find that all of the anger that should possess me, quickly leaves my heart as if it has no possibility of staying there.”

She stares down at her clasped hands rather than at her husband who is forgiving her for her unspeakable actions, the hammering of her heart making her chest ache. “I don’t deserve you.”

“I’m not leaving you.” His solemn promise has her tilting her chin up, his nimble fingers capturing her jaw as his thumb sweeps across her bottom lip. “Despite everything, I am not leaving you.”

Tears rush down her cheeks, the tips of his fingers catching every single one of them. “Why?”

He kisses her forehead, his lips like a cool sip of water on a hot day. “Because I have kept things from you, too ashamed to admit weakness.”

 _Northfield_. “Patrick—”

“Shh,” he sweeps his thumb along her lips, “when this is all over, I will take you away where we can talk about everything from our lives. No more secrets.” Leaning down, he captures her mouth in a searing kiss, one that holds a promise that they have the possibility to get through this ordeal with their love intact.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So two things to leave you with:
> 
> 1\. I had forgotten to mention this in the last chapter, but Otto Liebl is a real man (I had changed his name in the story.) A lot of the information about Liebl is taken from Adolf Eichmann's history. Here are two articles about him.  
> \- https://www.history.com/news/the-7-most-notorious-nazis-who-escaped-to-south-america  
> \- https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Adolf_Eichmann
> 
> 2\. For those who are interested in how to throw a knife, I am posting the youtube tutorial. It was actually rather helpful and it looks so easy to do. I would have tried it, however, I don't think my hubby would appreciate knife marks in the wall. 🤣🤣 This guy is very knowledgeable and has a lot of videos on the subject.  
> \- https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=uPXooDjvN9o


	8. Rescue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please heed the warnings, nothing too graphic though. 
> 
> I am once again at the mercy of Google translation.

“Is it promising that we didn’t see your mother or Charlie at the agency this evening?”

Shelagh laps up the vinegar with a tiny piece of chip. “Honestly, I’m not sure. Just because we didn’t see them doesn’t mean that they were not there.”

He shrugs his shoulder and pops the last piece of his fried fish into his mouth.

They had spent a half of day training at the agency’s facilities; first at the gun range, where he had shown great growth in his handling skills, and then at the targets. By the time she was satisfied with his knife throwing, it was their time to leave, deciding to stop by a stand to pick up dinner. Any other day she would have despised eating such greasy food, however, after the last two days that they had, she had given in.

“When are we going to practice those fighting moves?”

She coyly smiles at his question. Just before they had left, she had promised to teach him some of the more useful moves, much to his obvious amusement. Glancing up at him, she sees his eyes twinkling in mischief, a greasy crumb on the corner of his mouth.

As she reaches across to swipe it off with her thumb, he captures her wrist and kisses her finger. Her palm blossoms along his cheek, the warmth from his skin causing her stomach to fumble in anticipation. She had missed this; his playfulness, the easiness of freely showing their love, his unguarded touch. True, it had only been thirty-six hours, but she had never feared for her marriage as much as she did during those same thirty-six hours.

Standing, she steps around the table and is about to fall into his lap when the telephone rings. “I’ll get it,” she lightly kisses his forehead.

“Hurry back,” he grins.

“Good evening, Turner residence,” Shelagh practically smiles into the receiver.

“Oh, Shelagh,” Sister Julienne sighs, “I’m so happy to hear your voice.”

In an instant, Shelagh is on high alert, her former Sister’s voice a little too breathless for a simple phone call. “Is everything alright, Sister?” She glances at her watch and is surprised by the time. “Shouldn’t you and the others be at Compline?”

“We are hosting our new benefactor.”

So many things are not adding up in her mind. “This late?” She grips the telephone with both hands. “Are you sure you and the others are okay?”

“The benefactor would like to see you and Doctor Turner as soon as possible,” her voice takes on an edge that causes goosebumps to erupt across the back of her neck. “I told him that both you and the Doctor have been busy at the Royal Hospital and that you would be unable to — OW!”

“Sister Julienne?! Sister!” Panic drums against her chest when she hears a muffled slap to the cheek. “SISTER!”

“Shelagh!” Patrick runs into the hall, “What’s wrong?”

“Guten abend.” Cold, unrelenting ice runs through her veins at the voice that answers her back over the telephone, his greeting as calm as if she were back in his home under the guise of being Angelique’s school friend. **_Good evening_** _._

“Otto Liebl,” she helplessly looks to Patrick, the feel of the Nazis’ fingers wrapping around her throat nearly has her fainting.

“Ich habe ein ziemlich charmantes Gespräch mit Ihren ehemaligen Schwestern geführt.” She can hear him grinning across the telephone, her blood quickly reaching its boiling point. “Bis zu diesem Punkt waren sie liebenswürdige Gastgeber.” **_I have been having a rather charming conversation with your former Sisters_. _They have been gracious hosts up to this point_** _._

“Ich schwöre, wenn du ihnen weh tust—” **_I swear, if you hurt them_** _—_

“—was machst du?” His menacing voice yanks her around as if she is a doll tied to a marionette poll. “Schubsen Sie mich von einer Brücke?” _— **you’ll do what? Push me off a bridge?**_

A soft whisper of a hand to her cheek brings her back to that wretched night. “Ich habe versucht, sie zu retten.” **_I was trying to save her_** _._

He takes a shaky breath, his rage being felt through the telephone before coolly saying, “Ich möchte Ihren Mann treffen.” **_I would like to meet your husband_** _._

She looks to Patrick with wide eyes, the innocence of his fear earnestly shining through his hazel eyes. She knows that if she were to allow that to happen, that he will be tortured all for the sake of Liebl’s amusement. “Nein!” **_No_** _!_

“Dann werde ich wohl keine andere Wahl haben, als mit Schwester Julienne zu beginnen.” She hears a struggle on the other side, furniture being pushed against the wall, the sound of porcelain crashing onto the ground. “Für eine Ordensfrau ist sie eher lebhaft,” he huffs into the receiver. **_Then I guess I will have no choice but to start with Sister Julienne. For a religious nun, she is rather feisty_** _._

“Halt!” Shelagh gives Patrick the key to the hidden cabinets and motions for him to open them. “Bitte, sie hat dir keinen Schaden zugefügt.” **_Stop! Please, she has not caused you any harm_**.

She can hear him grinning from ear to ear at her desperate plea. “Aber es wird dir weh tun, derselbe Schmerz, den ich fühlte, als ich sah, wie du meine süße Angelique von der Brücke stießest.” **_But it will cause you harm, the same pain I felt when I watched you push my sweet Angelique off of the bridge_** _._

Her mouth feels hot and sticky, her mind heavy with hesitation, her loyalty stuck between a rock and a hard place. If she keeps Patrick away in safety, she will put her innocent sister in danger. If she brings Patrick, then Liebl will most certainly use him in the most heinous way.

“Ich erwarte, Sie und Ihren Ehemann innerhalb von dreißig Minuten hier unbewaffnet zu sehen,” she hears Sister Julienne yelling for them to stay away through the telephone, “oder ich werde anfangen, die Elastizität Ihrer ehemaligen Schwestern zu testen, beginnend mit dieser lebhaften.” He hangs up on her, the empty static of their lost connection crackling in her ear. **_I expect to see you and your husband here unarmed within thirty minutes… or I will begin testing the resiliency of your former Sisters, starting with this feisty one_** _._

Pulling the phone away from her ear, she stares down at it, utter helplessness pulling pieces of her stomach in opposite ways. _They have done nothing wrong_.

“Shelagh!” Patrick violently shakes her shoulders. “Shelagh! What has happened?”

“He’s… Otto Liebl…,” she looks up, terrified eyes staring right back at her, “he’s at Nonnatus House.”

“Dear god!” Turning away from her, he opens the hall closet and pushes all of the boxes out of the way to get to the hideaway. “You should call your mother.”

She hangs up the telephone. “Nonnatus House has been under surveillance since this had begun. Something has been compromised if Otto Liebl was able to stroll in.” She steps up to him and places her hand on his shoulder. “I will show you where to hide your weapons.”

He turns to her and captures both of her elbows, “Shelagh? What do we do?”

She is at a loss of words. She had always assumed that he would come after her directly. Being a religious man in Germany, she would have never guessed that Liebl would hold religious nuns against their will, much less threaten to torture them. _He is desperate for revenge, that is obvious, but why wasn’t he stopped. They should have seen him. Unless… it can’t be…_

“Shelagh.” She looks to him to see his brow furrowed in deep thought. “Ever since he has come to England, he has always been one step ahead. What can we do to change that?”

“He…,” She glances over his shoulder at the cabinet housing their weapons, “he is expecting me to go to Nonnatus House to rescue the Sisters, to bring my own weapons, and to bring reinforcements.” She catalogs through several different scenarios, hoping that there will be a better option than the first one that had come first in her mind. “If we have been compromised, a mole deep within the agency, then we cannot rely on the agency.”

“Do you know who the mole is?”

She shakes her head, “I don’t want to say, especially if I am wrong.” _God, I hope I’m wrong._

“Tell me what to do.” His voice is strong, assured in his conviction to stay by her side.

“I cannot guarantee your safety.” She screws her eyes shut. “He will torture you because he feels as if he has a right.”

He gently squeezes her elbows. “If I don’t come with you, then he will torture the Sisters.” She doesn’t reply, but that in itself is the answer he was seeking. “They don’t deserve this and you can’t go in there all by yourself. What do we have to do?”

Her heart flutters despite its tiny broken wings. “I have an idea and it’s not one that either of us will like.” She looks to him to see determination as hard as steel in his eyes. “We have to move quick. If we are not there within,” she checks her watch, “twenty-five minutes, he will begin to torture Sister Julienne.”

* * *

“Good evening,” Otto Liebl stands from his chair. “I have been waiting for this night for a long time.”

Just as they are pushed into the parlor, Shelagh instantly assesses the situation, making sure that Sister Julienne, Sister Evangelina, and Nurse Crane are alive and well. Other than the bruise on Sister Julienne’s cheek and several weapons trained on them, everyone else looks more frightened than anything. “You’ve got us, now let them go.” She glances back at Liebl. “They have done nothing to you.”

“One innocent life for another, the one you so carelessly took away from me.” He steps to the side and aims his pistol point blank at Sister Evangelina, who doesn’t even bat an eyelash.

“Despite your dubious intentions, Mr. Liebl, we will still love and care for Shelagh, no matter what you think she has done wrong.” Sister Julienne’s eyes widen as he aims his gun at her, yet, she stands her ground with the thrust of her chest. “Your gun will never convince me otherwise and, in the end, it will be you who will have to answer for your crimes.”

Taking two menacing steps towards Sister Julienne, he lifts his hand, ready to strike her.

Without a thought-out plan, Shelagh elbows the man behind her and strikes his nose with the back of her hand, effectively breaking it by the sickening crack of cartilage. Linking her arm into his, she twirls herself around so that she is now standing behind the groaning man, his throat within the crook of her elbow and his gun now hers as she lifts it towards Liebl.

“Uh, uh, uh,” the click of his hammer deafens all other sounds in the room, “you may strike me down, but not before my men will kill every single person in this room.” He presses the muzzle against Sister Julienne’s forehead. “Starting with her.”

Keeping her weapon trained on him, she glances around the room with her peripheral vision, noting that every gun is aimed at a person she loves. Having no other choice, she lowers her gun and let’s go of the man in front of her, satisfied that she was at least able to keep Sister Julienne safe. _For the moment._

The man wrenches his arm from her relaxed grip, turns, and smacks her cheek.

“You leave her alone!” Patrick struggles against the man behind him.

“Doctor Turner, I presume,” Liebl turns away from her sister and walks up to her husband, nodding to the man holding Patrick to let go. “I have learned much about you within these last few days.”

“You presume correctly,” Patrick instantly seeks Shelagh out, making sure that she is not hurt. In response, she gives him a tiny smile and ticks her eyes towards his watch. Awarding her with a slight nod in return, he helps her to stand straight. “I have learned a lot about you as well, Mr. Liebl.”

“I’m sure you have.” He motions towards his other men, who converge onto her, pulling her towards a chair next to her sisters, binding her wrists together with a pair of handcuffs.

The man behind Patrick captures him once again as he struggles to get to her. “What had happened was a long time ago.” He is pleading, but she knows it will do no good. “There is no need for this.”

“There is every need for this.” He holsters his gun and straightens his jacket. “You wife killed my daughter and countless German Nationals.”

“You mean Nazis,” Sister Evangelina shouts.

He ignores the outburst, “She deserves everything that I have planned for her.”

“You will never get away with this,” Nurse Crane narrows her eyes.

“That’s why I plan on killing every single one of you,” his smile is seductive as he turns back to Shelagh, “as she watches.” He takes a few steps towards her. “Genau wie ich musste,” he caresses her cheek with the back of his finger. **_Just like I had to_** _._

With her plan following through, her fingers clench within her palms as the desire to smack his face with the heel of her boot plays within her mind. _No!_ She looks to Patrick, the slight shake of his head helping her to reign in her emotions. _I have to stall, at least until Wiesenthal is in position to capture Liebl._ Glancing back at Liebl, she smirks before spitting in his face. “Fahr zur Hölle!” **_Go to hell_** _!_

Whipping out a handkerchief from his breast pocket, he wipes the spit from his face. “I vill enjoy breaking you.”

* * *

_Don’t breathe it in! Stay strong, damn it!_ A continuous stream of water cascades over his beautiful face, the cloth covering his nose and mouth trapping the water in an endless reign of pain. She knows from her short time on Ernst’s table that his lungs are burning for oxygen, his body convulsing, trying in vain to escape the clutches of the men torturing him.

Her muffled cries for them to stop falls on deaf ears as the stream of water continues to splash along his face.

“I imagine this is how Angelique must have felt when you pushed her off of the bridge.” Liebl stands by her, stoically watching as if he is the innocent party. He nods to his men.

Pulling Patrick up by his hair, the water-logged rag falls into his lap as he coughs out the water, his lungs sputtering to take in much-needed oxygen. She is the first person he looks at, his eyelashes dripping as a small smile stretches along his chapped lips.

Liebl turns towards her and slaps her cheek with the back of his hand, his strike deafened under the layer of bruises he had caused every time Patrick would smile at her. “Perhaps I have been far too easy.” He captures her jaw between his thumb and forefinger. “Perhaps a bullet in his brain will convince you of his demise.” He snaps his fingers, the men behind him picking up Patrick by his arms and forcing him to sit on his knees.

Panic, like a jagged knife, slices through her chest. She glances at the clock. _I will need to stall._

“I have made sure that your fellow agents will be nowhere in the vicinity.” Liebl pulls his pistol from his holster and turns towards his men holding Patrick. “Take him to the roof.” She can hear the glee in his voice. “The cobble street should prove useful.”

 _Wiesenthal be damned._ She begins to pull at her handcuffs, her muffled pleas successful at gather Liebl’s attention.

He pulls the fabric from her mouth, the tip of his gun pressing against her temple. “Tell me the location of your children.”

“Wenn Sie einen Informanten in der Agentur haben, warum nicht ihn für die Informationen verwenden?” Her fingers reach towards her watch, the pin she needs just under the band. **_If you have an informant in the agency, why not use him for the information?_**

“Du schwache Schlampe,” metal digs into her temple, ire gritting his teeth, “Du wirst mir alles erzählen, was ich wissen muss.” **_You weak bitch… you will tell me everything that I will need to know._**

She works the lock until it springs open, yet, she holds her position until the timing is right. “Ich werde dir nichts sagen.” **_I will tell you nothing_**.

Straightening his stance, Liebl adjusts his aim so that his gun is now pointing at her forehead. “Ich werde es genießen, dich zu töten,” he murmurs with utter glee. **_I will enjoy killing you_** _._

Sneaking a glance around the room, she notices that Liebl’s men are relaxed and scatted about, some of their weapons not even on their persons. _Bloody cocky fools._ Her two biggest hurdles are Liebl and the men surrounding Patrick. _Take out Liebl with a punch to his groin, snatching his pistol and picking off the two around Patrick._ “Nicht so viel wie ich.” **_Not as much as me._**

Just as the hammer clicks into place, she swings her right arm around, swiftly punching him in the groin. Just as she catches his gun, she cuffs his wrist and yanks him down as hard as she can, knocking him out when his head hits the corner of the chair. Aiming her gun with dead accuracy, she easily picks off the hostiles surrounding Patrick.

Pulling herself free from the chair, she swings it around and crushes it against the man closest to her, trapping him between her and the wall. Aiming, she fires two rounds into his skull before turning to the rest of the men in the room, including the man responsible for pouring the water.

First making sure that Patrick has armed himself and the others are alright, she easily takes down two men with a bullet between the eyes. Waterboy timidly lifts his gun towards her, his hand shaking as she takes a few menacing steps towards him.

“Ich habe nur Befehle befolgt.” **_I was just following orders_**.

She puts two bullets into him, the desire to see his reasoning of ‘following orders’ completely deflated, especially after so many had used that excuse for their heinous crimes in the past. Turning to her sisters, she is glad to see Patrick starting to untie them from their ropes. Despite the telltale footsteps of reinforcements echoing above her, she swiftly captures his cheek, “You were so brave.”

He gives her a cheeky smile. “I figured out where we are going to go for our vacation after this.”

She keeps herself from giggling. “You know what to do when you get into the medical room?”

He nods as finishes untying the last of the ropes.

“Good. I’ll be able to — ACK!” A bullet fired from the darkened hallway grazes her shoulder, blood instantly pooling onto the fabric of her dress. Lifting her gun, she keeps pulling the trigger until she hears a body fall to the floor. _Second wave._ “Get behind the sofa, now!” Throwing her spent gun onto the floor, she takes one from a dead body and pulls out her knife from just under her belt. Taking a deep breath, she presses herself against the wall praying to god that the man whom she took the pistol from had filled it with a new magazine.

The stillness of the usual-bustling halls rings loudly as she calms her breathing. Stealing two seconds to look at Patrick, pride runs freely through her veins when she sees him keeping a watch over the sisters with the PPK. Just as she is about to smile his way, the glint of a barrel catches her eye.

As the hostile takes one more step, she strikes his hand with her blade, twisting his body around, she aims her gun under his chin and pulls the trigger. A smattering of blood coats her cheek, however, she has no time to wipe it. Pulling her blade from his hand, she throws it to the bumbling hostile on the left, shooting at the eager hostile to the right.

With both of them incapacitated, she turns to the thunderous footfalls behind her, yet, is immediately met with three guns pointing straight at her. Within the limit of one second, she knows that her one gun with six, possibly seven bullets, will never outmatch three guns with twenty-four bullets. Just as her ideas to get out of this becomes wildly impossible, the sound of a gunshot ricochets through the room, effectively catching the three men off guard.

Taking two down with a bullet through their brain, she is left with an empty clip and an infuriated hostile. Flipping the gun into her hand, she throws it and hits the man in front of her between his eyes, knocking him out cold onto the floor. Pulling his gun from his hand, she aims pointblank—

“Shelagh!”

Her Sisters are looking at her with wide, terrified eyes, hoping beyond all hope that she will show him mercy. “He would have no problem raping and killing you without a second thought.” She puts two rounds into his skull.

Eagerly looking around the room, she hears no more footsteps, all men, except for one, lays dead on the floor. She walks up to Liebl, his prone body curled into a fetal position, her tense finger locked onto the trigger. Every inch of her body, every fiber of her instincts tells her to kill him, to make things simpler in the long run.

“You promised to keep him alive.”

She grits her teeth. She had made that promise to her friend-turned-Nazi-hunter, yet, she reasons what he doesn’t know won’t hurt him, especially if Liebl is going to be murder under the guise of capital punishment. “He would never show leniency.”

“But you promised,” unlike her Sisters, Patrick gives her the strength she needs in his gentle eyes to help her resist temptation.

Relaxing her grip, she takes a small step back. She smiles at him, delirious that their plan had—

Feeling her world topple over, her head hits the ground hard, jamming her injured shoulder as her gun scatters far out of reach. Just as her fingernails scrape the handle, a hard kick into her stomach cripples her, breaking a few of her ribs.

Lifting her by her hair, Liebl murmurs through his teeth, “Ich werde jeden ermorden, den du jemals geliebt hast.” His fist tightens, his nails scraping her scalp as he slaps her cheek. **_I will murder everyone you have ever loved_**.

Despite the piecing pain ripping through her body, she looks to him with cold, steely eyes, “Sie haben alle Menschen, die Sie jemals geliebt haben, in den Tod geschickt, einschließlich Angelique.” **_You have sent everyone that you ever loved to their deaths, including Angelique._**

“No!” His fist pounds into her already bruised cheek.

“Sie sprang von dieser Brücke, weil sie nie mit dem Wissen leben konnte, dass ihr Vater ein Mörder war.” **_She jumped off of that bridge because she could never live with the knowledge that her father was a murderer_**.

“Lie! All lies!” He smacks her again and again. “I vill enjoy killing your children first, but not before torturing your husband.” His boot alternating with his fist reigns against her body. “You vill gladly wish for — uh!” Rapid gunfire causes Liebl to fall to his knees, his eyes widened in shock before hitting the floor.

Scrambling out from girth of his body, she finds a startled Patrick with his gun still aimed at Liebl.

Not wasting anymore time, she steals a blade from one of his dead henchmen and raises it to rid him from her life once and for all.

“Shelagh.”

She coils at the soft voice, yet her grip remains fierce. “If I let him live, there is a chance that he will escape.”

Sister Julienne kneels beside her. “He is to be tried for his heinous crimes.”

“If he escapes, he will hunt us down.” Tears gather in the corners of her eyes, her hands trembling. “He will hurt you.” 

“You are not a murderer.”

She looks into the eyes of the woman she has considered like a mother, “I have killed many more,” her confession carries on the fragile wings of a whisper, “far more than you can imagine.”

“Out of duty, perhaps, or fear, or, even self-preservation, but never out of spite.” Her gentle fingers wraps around her hand, the blade finally falling onto the floor. “Never out of hate.”

“I am so sorry that you had to witness everything that I used to be tonight. You never deserved this,” she captures Sister Julienne’s free hand, “none of it.”

The older woman pulls her up and helps her onto the sofa, taking a piece of her habit to wipe the blood from her face. “While I must admit I was rather shocked at first, I found myself glad that you were on our side.”

“Shelagh?” Patrick settles down on the table facing her, his gun now laying forgotten next to him.

She reaches out and captures his cheek. “I am so proud of you.”

He kisses her palm, “Not as much as I am of you.”

“You will need to be taken to the hospital,” Nurse Crane murmurs. “I am quite sure that I heard a few ribs break in Mr. Liebl’s final assault.”

“No.” Standing from the sofa, she tumbles back down as a sharp pain pierces her chest.

“It looks as if you have no choice,” Sister Evangelina wisely cracks.

Closing her eyes, Shelagh tries to regulate her breathing to help keep the pain at bay. “I have to check the rest of the rooms to make sure—”

“Shelagh,” Patrick gently prods his fingers under her chest, “I can definitely feel at least two broken ribs. God knows what other damage that has caused. We need to get both you and the others here to the hospital.”

“I don’t need to go to the hospital,” Sister Evangelina indignantly calls out. “I need to make sure that the telephone is back into working order and pray that—”

“Shh!” Shelagh takes Patrick’s gun and struggles to stand, aiming towards the calamitous footsteps heading their way. Drawing a breath in feels like a million needles stabbing her into her chest, yet, with a good dose of adrenaline, she is able to step in front of her family, ready to protect them at all cost.

“What was the last thing I told you in Paris?” Her mother walks out of the shadow, her weapon trained on her daughter, Simon Wiesenthal and Charlie not far behind her.

Shelagh nearly collapses with relief, yet, she doesn’t let her guard down completely. “Stay in the shadows. Keep guard at all times. Above all else, tell no one.” She keeps her aim, despite her lack of oxygen. “Names of all the pigs that were born in the snowstorm.”

“Twinkle, Wrinkle, and Pinkle. The other three did not make it.”

Just as she sees her mother smile, her vision goes completely black.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Simon Wiesenthal is a real person, a man whom had spent his whole life dedicated to finding Nazis in hiding after the war. Here is a website with more information:
> 
> https://www.britannica.com/biography/Simon-Wiesenthal


	9. Mole

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you again for all of the lovely support! I have to say that my favorite part about posting this story is your different predictions as to what will happen next or who the mole is. 
> 
> Special thanks to Vivie for the translation help!

“Hear my cry, O God;

listen to my prayer.

From the ends of the earth I call to you,

I call as my heart grows faint;

lead me to the rock that is higher than I.

For you have been my refuge,

a strong tower against the foe.”

Shelagh smiles as she hears Angelique singing Psalms quietly to herself. “I love that verse.” She opens her eyes to the bright fields overgrown with wildflowers, their school just beyond the hill.

“I remember,” Angelique absently runs her fingers through Shelagh’s hair, her eyes focused off in the distance.

Sitting up from the blanket, she looks off into the same distance as Angelique where dark, ominous clouds threateningly rolls towards them. Her stomach knots and pulls as if it is warning her. “I don’t belong here,” she turns to her dear friend, “do I?”

Angelique’s eyes are drawn down in sorrow. “I have missed you.”

An abundance of memories begins to help fill her soul; the laughter of her brothers before they had gone off to war, helping Sally Paskins give birth to a baby boy on her first call out as a midwife, singing to the Lord at the old Nonnatus House before it being torn down, a small kiss on the heel of her hand, the first time Timothy called her ‘mum’, the first time she held Angela in her arms.

“Selfishly, I wanted to see you.” She lifts her bright green eyes up, silently pleading for her to understand. “You have to go back.”

Shelagh looks around the field, her subconscious overloaded with images of them in this very spot. “But I have so many beautiful memories from here.”

Angelique lifts up onto her knees, her back to the menacing clouds inching their way closer to them, a promise of agonizing pain charging through the dense air. “Listen to me very closely, singvogel. You are in terrible danger.”

“We should go in from the storm.”

“No!” She sharply captures her arms in a vice grip. “You need to wake up.” She begins to shake her. “You need to wake up now!”

Shelagh grabs onto Angelique, “But, how am I supposed to wake up when — ACK!” The sound of a gun violently shatters through her ears. “How did I—” Pain sears through her arm under her palm, blood seeping out along her white floral dress.

“I need for you to remember,” Angelique folds her into her arm as rain begins to fall mercilessly on them, “I need for you to wake up.”

Nearly all of the wind is forced out of her as if an invisible force had kicked her in her stomach. “What if I don’t want to remember? What if I — OW!” Her ribs snap like twigs on their own. “What if I don’t want to go back?”

“Patrick needs for you to go back. Timothy and Angela will be lost without you.” Tears stream down her cheeks, desperation causing her voice to crack. “It is not our time to reunite, singvogel.”

“What about you?” Her vision begins to waver, black dots filling her eyes in time of each raindrop battering against her skin, like splashes on a calm lake.

“We will meet again, but not for a long time.”

“I’m scared,” mud splatters all around her, the sound of a shovel charging through the soil dominates her senses.

“Help is on-,” whatever else she had said is lost to the sight of a man working his way into the ground, the darkness of the stormy night making it hard to see where she is at.

Her body aches like nothing she has ever felt before as the wind howls around her, cold rain seeping into ever crevice. She tries to move her hands and feet, yet thick rope, binding her limbs, grates deeply into her skin.

Slamming her eyes shut, she tries to remember what had happened. The last thing she recalls is being at Nonnatus House; the Pied Piper had held her Sisters hostage and she had gone there with Patrick to save them. There were many casualties, but thankfully no one from those she loved had been hurt.

“You’re awake.”

Her eyes flutter open to see Charlie throwing the spade down next to her. Disappointment stings her heart at the sight of him, however, everything she had guessed on the mole is now beginning to add up. She had, up to this point, prayed that she was wrong. “You were the one who tipped off Liebl.”

“I was going to kill you myself, but then you called me, and an opportunity presented itself.” He grabs her arm and drags her to her shallow grave, sharp shooting pains causing stars to pop in her blurry vision. “I thought that Liebl was going to finish you off for me, but the old man proved to be useless.”

“And the other agents?” She can clearly see the five photographs in her mind, each one with a red X crossed along their faces. She briefly wonders if the others had died just like she is about to.

He pulls his gun from his holster; the same one she had given him for his birthday. “Believe it or not, I get paid a helluva lot more money if I kill past agents than I do for killing commies.” A small grin stretches along his lips as he checks his gun for bullets.

Raw fury sears through her at the blatancy of his words. “You’re a bloody traitor!” She doubles over as each word said is followed with an icepick shoved into her lungs.

“Tsk, tsk, tsk!” Lightning flashes through the dark sky as his lips turn upward into a sinister smile. “Language, Sister Bernadette.” The hammer clicks back loudly as she catches the glimmer from the tip of the bullet. “I won’t enjoy killing you, ma petite araignée, however, I think I will enjoy killing your husband and then your mother.”

She hopelessly wrestles against her bindings as he adjusts his aim. Closing her eyes, she quietly recites the same prayer she had heard Angelique singing in her dream, visions of Patrick and the children flashing within her eyes.

Two gunshots fire off into the pouring rain.

After a few seconds of deafening silence, she slowly opens her eyes to see Charlie’s body in the pit he had dug.

“Shelagh!” Patrick’s voice calls out to her, the sound of footsteps splashing through the mud becoming louder.

She tries to move her body, yet agony rips through her chest.

He clambers down next to her, his warm hand curling under her neck, his thumb sweeping along her parched lips. “Oh, my darling,” he gently kisses her forehead, “I had thought that he… that we wouldn’t get here in time.”

“How—” she is barely able to breathe through her word.

“Shhh,” their foreheads kiss in an unbreakable connection, “rest, my darling. Everything will be explained when we get you to the hospital.”

“I,” her head begins to spin, “love,” her heart speeds to an unfathomable rate, “you,” her vision grows dimmer.

“I will not leave your—” her vision goes completely dark.  
  


* * *

  
“Dear Lord,” his gentle voice stirs her from her dreamless slumber, “please continue to watch over her. Protect her. Guide her back within the arms of the people who love her the most.” His grip tightens over her knuckles. “Guide her back to me, O’ Lord, for she is my everything. Without her, I will be but a lost sheep.”

Her mouth, dry as the sand on a beach, opens, yet no words come out.

He looks up to her, relief shining brightly within his hazel eyes. “Rest, my darling. You have been through so much.” He lets go of her hand to grab a cup from the table next to him. “Take a small sip.” He places a straw into her mouth.

The blessed coolness of water hits her tongue, yet exhaustion sweeps though.

“Sleep, my darling,” he kisses her forehead, “I will never leave your side.”

Sleep, once again, overtakes her body.  
  


* * *

  
A cool hand, smaller than the one she adores, sweeps across her forehead, bringing her back from her dreamless slumber. “How is she this morning?”

“Much better.” Her heart sings at Patrick’s voice. “She has been able to wake up for brief moments to take a few sips of water. The doctors here are sure she will make a full recovery.”

“Awake.” Her throat feels as if it is sandpaper, her body consciously opening itself up to the pain.

“There’s my Sweetpea.” Her mother bends down and kisses her forehead. “There is so much to talk about, but we will wait until you are able to sit up."

She looks to Patrick. “Children?”

“They are safe at Granny Parkers. They have been told that you were in an accident. Tim has been wanting to see you, but he understands that you still need to recover before taking visitors.”

She looks to her mother. “Charlie.”

“Dead.” She exchanges worried looks with Patrick. “However, I will not say anything more. You are your family are safe and well looked after.”

Fatigue begins to smother over her, her eye lids becoming heavier as each second ticks by until darkness surrounds her.  
  


* * *

  
“For you have been my refuge, a strong tower against the foe.”

Shelagh stirs from her sleep, her dream of Patrick’s endless arms causing her to smile. “I love that verse.”

A familiar hand, lined with friendly wrinkles, captures her arm. “You had once told me that it reminded you of simpler times.”

Shelagh opens her eyes to see Sister Julienne serenely smiling down. “It…” A small nudge of disappointment gathers in her throat, yet she swallows it whole. For one brief moment, she had sworn she had returned back to the bright field with overgrown wildflowers with Angelique running her fingers through her hair. “It does; or at least it used to.”

“Does it not bring you serenity anymore?”

“It brings me strength now.” She closes her eyes, the weight of her memories sitting heavily on her chest.

“If you don’t mind me asking, what brings you peace?”

Images bombard her subconscious, her body instantly letting go of that oppressive weight as tears stream down her cheek. “A misty road, a kiss on my palm, and a yellow flower.”

“His love for you is strong,” Sister Julienne gives her a gentle squeeze, “he has not left your side since being admitted.”

Shelagh opens her eyes and glances around the stark room. “Where is he?”

“He is talking with your aunt.”

“She’s my mother,” she whispers her confession.

Sister Julienne simple nods as if she had known all that time. “The resemblance is uncanny, especially the eyes.”

“What of the others?”

“Sister Evangelina and Nurse Crane is taking the news of your former life rather stoically, possibly with a bit more pride than shock. We have all sworn and signed an affidavit that we will never speak of this incident to anyone who was not present in the room.”

“I am sorry that—”

“Don’t be sorry, not when you had the choice to run.”

Her simple words of understanding nearly breaks her down. “It should have never happened in the first place.”

“But it did and we are grateful that you had come to our rescue.” Sister Julienne tips her head to the side and smiles. “Nothing you say will change our minds on the matter.”

A cool breeze of calmness caresses her heart. While she will never forgive herself for opening the doors of Nonnatus House to danger, she is eternally grateful that those she loves the most were able to walk out unscathed. “And the others?”

“By the time they had come back, your mother and her team were able to convince them that there was a gas leak. They have been kind enough to rehouse us while they clean up the mess.”

“Thank goodness.” Exhaustion begins to weigh heavily on her mind. “And the service to the community?”

“You know as well as I do that Poplar is strong and will remain resilient even long past when we are gone.”

“Shelagh?” Patrick pops his head through the door to see her opening her eyes.

She blinks slowly. “Hi.”

He slips in and reaches her side within a few steps. “You are looking much better today.”

“Everything still hurts but I am feeling more energetic.”

“Rest, my darling. If you are up to it, Timothy would love to come and visit tomorrow.”

Her eyes grow heavy. “I would like that.”

“Rest well, Shelagh.” Sister Julienne pats her on her arm. “We are all praying for a fast recovery.”

And with nothing else holding her back, she allows sleep to take over.  
  


* * *

  
“PATRICK!” Shelagh rushes up from her bed, her arms reaching out, faint images of Patrick falling over an edge haunting her soul. Within the shell of the dark room around her, she sees something stirring in the corner. Instantly she reaches down to pull her gun, but she finds nothing but twisted sheet doused in sweat.

“Shelagh.” Patrick’s voice helps to calm her panic. “Shelagh I’m here.” He settles down next to her, his arm slipping around her waist to comfort her. “You had a bad dream.”

“We were back at Nonnatus House and Liebl had just pushed you off of the roof.” She snuggles closer into his chest, tears now streaming down her cheeks. “I couldn’t save you. I… god, I could only watch. I… I…”

“Shhh,” he rocks her back and forth, “I’m here, darling, and I am never leaving your side.” He kisses her forehead, his lips being the salvation to her demons.

“I am so sorry,” she whispers against his chest.

“I love you,” he murmurs over and over again until her body relaxes in his strong arms.

Feeling her mind at ease, sleep quickly takes ahold of her body.  
  


* * *

  
“Start from the beginning,” Shelagh places her empty teacup on the tray in from of her, “please.”

Patrick nervously glances to her mother. “After you fainted?”

Her eyes never deviate from her mother. “You know where to start.”

“I knew that there was a mole, but I didn’t know who it was until after your original rescue. It was just too much of a coincidence that five past agents had died within a short time of a year, despite how they had died.”

“Did you send me the warning?”

Eirene’s brow dips in confusion, “What warning?”

“Right after Charlie had warned me about Liebl coming to London, I had received a package of photographs of the agents killed, warning me that I was vulnerable.”

“Why didn’t you say anything,” Patrick asks.

“Because,” Eirene answers, “she would have put the agent who sent her the warning in danger. Charles was a very capable agent who had top clearance. If he knew someone was onto him, he would have found out and killed them.”

Patrick rolls his eyes and huffs, “Why did he do it?”

“Money,” Shelagh murmurs. “He was being paid a lot of money to kill agents from the war. My question is who paid him?”

“We have been combing through his financials.” Eirene crosses her legs. “We discovered an alias account set up in Switzerland, however the deposits do not show who it had come from. Charles knew how to cover his tracks.”

“And you didn’t find it strange that he had an alias account to begin with?”

“It’s not uncommon for spies or,” she tips her head towards Shelagh, “former spies to have money hidden away.”

Patrick opens his mouth to say something but closes it when she gives him a slight shake of her head when her mother glances down at her skirt. “So, if Charlie was the mole, how does Otto Liebl play into this scenario?”

“Charlie was the one who tipped him off, knowing full well what Liebl was capable of, he was content to let everything play out.” Shelagh straightens her back. “When he failed, Charlie had decided to kill me himself.”

“Our agent in Argentina, who told us that Liebl was on his way to London, disappeared not too long after he sent us the message. His body was discovered the same day you both had come to practice in our facilities. Knowing full well that top level clearance personnel has access to all agent locations and safe houses, we had decided to discretely put transmitters on them.”

Patrick looks over to Eirene under the hood of his eyes. “Including you?”

Eirene turns in her chair, “I did everything in power to protect both my only-living child and her family. So yes, they put a transmitter in my body to keep track of all of my movements.”

“And the other agents?”

Eirene turns back to her daughter, “They have transmitters secretly placed on them, but I will not go any further than that.”

“And that is how you found Charlie and I in the field?”

“Patrick had come up to me when Charles had left with no warning. After calling the agency, they had informed us of his exact location.”

“Thank goodness you had a transmitter on him,” Shelagh whispers under her breath, reaching out for Patrick’s hand and gently squeezing it. “I’m assuming that Liebl will be tried in Israel.”

“He is in his holding cell at this very moment. Your friend, Simon Wiesenthal, and his team had taken the credit for his capture. The Israelis even agreed to make it appear that they captured him in Argentina if we agreed to destroy all paper records of his visit to London.”

Patrick asks, “Was he questioned?”

“He told us nothing, however, we conjecture that he went to Nonnatus House because you, Shelagh, had called the agency from a telephone box rather than your house.” Her mother’s sapphire blue eyes twinkle when she begins to catch on.

Yet, it is Patrick who asks, “Did the other agents who were killed call the agency from their homes?”

Eirene glances over her shoulder, “We have just started pulling our telephone records; however, I have no doubt in my mind that that is how Charles was able to track them down.”

“So, when I called to ask if I was clear to be on the Christmas showing,” her mother turns back to her, “the only known location he could get a fix on was the church and the convent where the nuns and nurses lived.”

“And Charlie wouldn’t have been able to give the location of our home after Liebl was in London for fear of being caught,” Patrick finishes. Shaking his head, he sighs, “This whole story sounds like something from a James Bond novel.”

Eirene tilts her chin thoughtfully, “It does, doesn’t it?” She shrugs her shoulders. “My favorite will always be ‘Casino Royale’.”  
  


* * *

  
“Mrs. Turner?” Shelagh looks up from her book to see Iris, Charlie’s protégé peeking in through the door. “May I come in?”

She closes the book, “Of course.”

“Mrs. Mannion wanted you to read over your statement before signing it.” She places a Manila folder on the small table in front of her.

“For it to be burned?”

“Knowing this agency, most of the information will be redacted and kept in a top security vault.”

Shelagh opens the folder and reads over the statement she had written out before signing it with her old call numbers, 729. Passing the folder back, she quietly asks, “Where will they post you next?”

“Russia.”

“Despite his traitorous downfall, Charlie was a wealth of information.”

“He had taught me a lot, but towards the end, he was on his way out, the agency threatening to force him into retirement. I believe his treachery stemmed more from his resentment at being pushed out rather than the money as you had claimed.”

The young woman stares at her, her emotions unfazed by the news of her colleague’s deceit. “You are the one who sent me the warning.”

Blinking once, she shrugs her shoulders and places the file under her arm. “I don’t know what you are talking about.”

_Once a spy_ … “Of course.”

“Have a good evening, Mrs. Turner.”

“Good luck, Iris.”

Giving her a slight smile, the young woman slips out of the door.  
  


* * *

  
“It is so nice to be back home,” Shelagh smiles as Timothy helps her onto the sofa.

“It is great to have you back home, especially your cooking.”

She laughs as Patrick turns bright red. “Timothy,” he warns.

“I thought I would never say this, but I can’t stand the sight of fish and chips,” the younger Turner whines, hiding within the comfort of Shelagh’s arms.

“Patrick, perhaps one of these days I will show you how to make something easy.”

“And pray that it’s edible,” Timothy cheekily adds under his breath.

She presses her lips together to keep from laughing too hard. “Go on now and play while your father and I talk.”

Giving her a chaste kiss on the cheek, Timothy mumbles, “I’m glad that you are home safe.” Jumping off of the sofa, he runs through the house and out the door.

After setting Angela in her playpen, Patrick sits on the edge of the sofa. “Shelagh, I promise I tried.”

She reaches out and captures his jaw within her palm, “I know, my darling, it hasn’t been easy with me being at the hospital for the past two weeks, however, with a bit of prayer, we will be able to get back onto our normal routine soon.”

“Do you think we will have anymore problems from anyone from your past?”

“With Liebl’s assets tied up, I feel secure that we are safe from any attempts.”

“Your mother had told me that they had taken out most weapons from our house, with the exception of the cabinet in the kitchen and the weapons hidden in our bedroom.”

Her thumb sweeps across his bottom lip. “Are you okay with that?”

“I still hate guns,” he firmly murmurs, “but I want to keep you and the children safe.”

“I wish I can say that we no longer have a need for them, but with Charlie’s employer still unknown, I would rather not take that risk.”

He captures her hand and kisses her palm, “Agreed.”

Her finger greedily reaches out to his cheek, yet a heavy weight falls along her chest. “Will we be okay, Patrick?”

He presses her hand against his cheek as he takes a deep breath. “I’m still angry that this is our new normal, however, my love for you has not change, nor will it ever. We just have to make sure that we are cautious.”

“I love you, Patrick.” Pulling him closer, she kisses him on his forehead.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope most questions were answered! 
> 
> Epilogue will be the last one up!


	10. Epilogue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING! If you have not read the last chapter, "Rescue", then you might want to do that before reading this one.

_Songvogel._ That word, so foreign to her now, still has the power to make her heart jump, to cast her from her dreams of yellow wildflowers and foggy fields. Tightening her arms around legs, she lays her forehead against the cool window.

The storm brewing outside gives a picture as to what is currently cresting in her heart.

Through the reflection of the glass and with the help of a streak of lightening, she sees that Patrick is still sound asleep in bed. _He looks so peaceful, far more than what I have been able to give him these past few months._

After she had completely recovered, their new addition of combat training did not sit well with either of them. They had fought many times over who’s to blame and what’s right or wrong that they lost their way with their marriage.

It was one night, a few weeks prior, that their fighting had come to standstill when he had left the house through the angry slam of the front door. When he didn’t return, she knew that they needed to put more focus on their marriage rather than how to deflect a sucker punch to the ribs.

It had taken her quite some time to plan this out, but they were able to leave for the shore for an entire week; just them with nothing else to do but to be with each other. She had felt guilty for not taking the children, especially since Angela had never seen the seashore like this, but she knew that they would just be burying their true feelings deeper into a dark, cataclysmic hole.

The moment the door to their room closed, they themselves had nowhere else to hide. Instead of opening their conversation, they had made love against every piece of furniture that could hold their weight. Looking back, she finds that it was both of their subconscious’ trying in vein to hide from the truth as to what they needed to talk about, but it felt good to be close to her husband; to touch him unguardedly, to kiss every inch of skin she wished, to feel loved in his arms.

It was after, when they laid spent on the bed, did they start talking; his anger, her guilt, both of their needs to protect that which is most important to them.

They are far from fixed, their marriage a constant revolving cycle of wants and needs, however, with this wall between them, she is glad to see it crumbling down. The last piece of truth that still hangs between them is the one part she is unsure of how he will react to it. _He had been in love before we married_ , her mind reasons, _however Marianne was his wife and the mother of his first child. Angelique…_

The image of her bright green eyes and soft smile swims within her memories.

“Shelagh?” She closes her eyes to Patrick’s gentle voice.

_He deserves to know about her_.

“I was in love with her.” She turns around to see that he is sitting up in bed, the sight of his bare chest causing her stomach to flip. “I didn’t know it at the time or maybe I just didn’t want to know, but I had loved her.”

He rubs his sleepy eyes. “She trusted you more than anyone else.”

“She found out about the truth of her father, that was never a lie, but we had been planning on running away together since before that.” She bows her head. “We even had our story planned out.”

“So, you two going to Paris…?”

“We had to push our timetable up by a few months, which we were not prepared for.” She swallows past the knot in her throat. “Then her father showed up, furious that she would leave him. At the time, he didn’t know of my role as a spy, but he figured out quickly that we were in love with each other; which, I think disgusted him more.”

She doesn’t dare look at him, afraid of what she might see. “When I had caught up to them on that bridge, she knew that she would never escape the hatred of her father; that if she were any other woman, he would have gladly put a bullet through her head just for loving someone he wouldn’t approve of.” Tears stream down her cheeks. “That is why she jumped.”

Seconds stem into minutes, silence encapsulating them within their small room. “Did anyone else know about your relationship?”

She shakes her head. “For the longest time, I loved her privately, too ashamed to talk about it with anyone.”

Within the wisp of the rustling bedsheets, he kneels down in front of her, clasping her hands against his chest. “You should never be ashamed to talk about the people that you love.”

“How can you say that?”

“Because if there is one thing the war taught me was that love is beautiful and should always be cherished.”

She leans down, her forehead kissing his. “I truly am sorry for everything.”

“I know, my darling.” He gently squeezes her hands. “Thank you for telling me about Angelique. I could tell, even from the first debriefing, that she was special to you.”

“She saved me, the night Charlie had planned on killing me.” Her lips press together in a fine line. “In my unconscious state, I dreamed of her in this field we used to go to while we were at school. She had told me that I had to remember all that had happened, to wake up, that you needed me.”

“When I was suffering from my exhaustion last year, I remember dreaming of Marianne.” Her tears begin to subside. “She kicked me in the arse, pushing me to get up so that I could care for you and the children.” He lifts her chin with the crook of his finger. “I am glad that we both have someone to kick us into gear when we need it.”

“I am glad that I have you.” She kisses the tip of his nose. “While the thought of Angelique gives me faith and patience; you give me hope, and love, and an unyielding strength.”

He draws his arms around her body, pulling her in, kissing her in an unbridled kiss. “We still have so much to work on,” he lifts her into his arms, “but at this particular moment, I want us back in bed.”

Wrapping her arms around his neck, she feels secure that, despite the uncertainty of their future, he will always be by her side.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That is all she wrote, folks! Words cannot express how lucky I am to be in a fandom as open-minded and caring as this one. Thank you for taking a chance on this story! Please let me know what you think!

**Author's Note:**

> First of all, if you have made it this far, thank you for putting your trust in me. I know this will not be everyone's cup of tea, but it has become a passion project of mine during the summer. 
> 
> I would love to know what you think!


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